

Gopy:ightI\ T0 ._ 


COPYRIGHT DEPOSfli 






























An Unfinished Divorce 


or S :<f 

Her Better Self 


BY 


FRANCIS D. GALLATIN 



Cochrane Publishing Co. 
New York 
1909 



Copyright, 1909, 
by 

Cochrane Publishing Co. 


* « 
i « 

fit 


J LIBRARY • niRi-'SS 
Two ad 

APR 9 1809 


.. . 

CLASS y • ? 



To my Brother , 
ALBERT R. GALLATIN , 

this book is affectionately dedicated. 


“The American nation is developing itself, or 
transforming itself, so rapidly that its citizens 
are in a position, from their own personal ex- 
perience, to appreciate more readily than can be 
done in Europe, the immense r61e w T hich is 
played in life by hidden forces.” 

Gugliemo Ferrero. 


FOREWORD 


'TThe increase of divorce, particularly among 
VU the upper classes all over the world, is 
agitating the churches and the moralists to an 
extent which has not been noted before in our 
time and generation. Unfortunately the whole 
question is being discussed in a sentimental, dis- 
connected and irrational fashion, due largely to 
certain preconceived notions as to the so-called 
sanctity of the marriage institution, and the as- 
sumption that it is the result of a divine com- 
mand. Necessity as the basis of moral law, 
has been completely ignored, and the refusal 
to acknowledge the fact that centuries of experi- 
ence w T ith the monogamous marriage have failed 
to eradicate, not to say, modify in the slightest 
degree, the naturally polygamous instincts of the 
average man. 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


It will be admitted that a discussion or argu- 
ment gains nothing through the suppression of 
facts, much as we may dislike to acknowledge 
them. But it is only by bravely confronting the 
situation as we find it, and by viewing it from 
all standpoints that we arrive at conclusions that 
will bear the test of experience and advance the 
state of society. 

In this book the author discusses the subject 
of divorce from the various points of view as 
above outlined in a masterly fashion. The char- 
acters drawn from all classes of life are so op- 
posed and chosen, that the mind of the reader 
sees through the mere machinery of the exposi- 
tion and appreciates the fact that the subject is 
being treated in an entirely novel and hereto- 
fore, unattempted manner. The reader will per- 
ceive, as the title leads us to infer, that in the 
end the fundamental thesis is proved: namely, 
that the institution of monogamous marriage, as 
it exists to-day, is on the whole the best solution 
of the sex question that the human race has so 
far evolved ; in spite of the fact that it is at vari- 
ance with some of the most fundamental in- 
stincts of mankind. 


— Albert R. Gallatin. 



I 

he Paris express had left Bellegarde, 
and, gathering speed, was rushing 
through the storm towards Geneva, 
where it was due to arrive in about 
three-quarters of an hour. Seated close to the 
window of a first-class compartment, Jean des 
Ormes eagerly scanned the familiar scenes as 
they flitted by; but night was falling rapidly 
and, in the deepening obscurity, the landscape 
soon became indistinct. Through the pouring 
rain, the red and green signal lights gleamed 
mistily, and now and then the brightly illumin- 
ated window of a small way-station would ap- 
5 



An Unfinished Divorce . 


pear, only to be immediately swallowed up in 
the thick darkness. 

“We shall soon be at Geneva,” the young man 
said to himself, as, tugging at his short brown 
moustache, he turned his eyes from the window 
and restlessly shifted his position. 

After an absence of over a year, spent in the 
wilds of Eastern Africa, Jean des Ormes was re- 
turning home. His good humored but rather 
irresolute countenance was deeply bronzed by 
the tropical sun, and his tall well-knit figure was 
thin and lank from the hard work and exposure 
incident to the adventurous life he had been 
leading. 

In certain lights gray hairs could be detected 
on his temples, which, together with the deep 
lines about his eyes and mouth, gave him an ap- 
pearance of greater age than his thirty-three 
years would warrant. Wealthy and of excellent 
birth, his education had been that of others of 
his class, and had failed to endow him with that 
fixity of purpose which is indispensable to any 
real success in life. Married while still a 
youth, he had discovered after twelve months of 
perfect happiness, that the yoke of matrimony 
was galling him. Not that he had grown indif- 
ferent to his wife — she had been, and still con- 
6 


An Unfinished Divorce . 

tinued to be his ideal — and no other woman had 
ever appealed to him as she had done, but his 
early marriage had prevented him from fully 
satisfying his curiosity. 

A great traveler he himself did not fully 
realize the fact that his frequent absences were 
due quite as much to his desire to learn what he 
should have learned before contracting perman- 
ent ties, as to any other cause. His interests 
and affections, nevertheless were centered 
about his home and had his marriage been post- 
poned until his character had been formed by 
contact with the world, everything indicated 
that he would have made a devoted husband. 
Never during his voyages were wife and children 
long distant from his thoughts, nor did his desire 
to be reunited with them diminish as time went 
by. He was one of those unfortunate individ- 
uals on whom a restless nature, abundant means 
and the modern facilities for travel had bestowed 
the instincts of a nomad. 

“Berthe will be surprised at my return,” he 
soliloquized. “She has no idea, that I am 
in Europe, but thinks me still in Darkest Africa. 

I wonder how my sudden arrival will affect her. 
Maurice has sometimes jokingly asserted that 
my habit of appearing on the scene without the 
7 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


usual warning rather implies a lack of confidence 
in my wife; but God knows that my only motive 
is to spare her weeks of anxiety while I am at 
sea. However, since we had quarreled about 
Estelle Rondin, and considering our rather 
strained relations when we separated, it would 
perhaps have been wiser had I telegraphed her 
from Paris.” 

He lit a cigarette and, after a moment’s hesi- 
tation, arose and reached for his valise, which 
had been placed in the rack above his head. He 
unlocked it and drew forth a dozen or more let- 
ters whose worn appearance evidenced their fre- 
quent and thoughtful reading. He turned, so 
that the gas lamp in the ceiling would illumin- 
ate them to the best advantage, and once more 
devoted himself to their perusal. Notwithstand- 
ing the fact that he knew them by heart he could 
not avoid showing his annoyance at their con- 
tents. 

“This is not quite fair of Berthe,” he mut- 
tered to himself, “but perhaps I ought not to 
blame her for thinking as she did.” 

“However, this is too much,” he exclaimed 
a moment later. “I really do not think that she 
ought to accuse me of such an act — anything but 
that — give the devil his due.” 

8 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


As he read, his countenance gradually cleared ; 
the letters apparently becoming more satis- 
factory. 

“Thank God she has gotten over her foolish- 
ness,” he ejaculated, as he folded the last and 
replaced it in its envelope. 

After he had restored the package to its former 
place and carefully relocked the valise he endea- 
vored through the darkness to determine his ex- 
act position. “Here we are already at La Plaine 
and home once more,” he exclaimed, as the 
Swiss arms over the door of the custom house 
flashed by. “I must begin to make my prepara- 
tions.” 

When he had finished rolling his shawl strap 
and collecting his gun cases and valises, the 
murky sky was already aglow with the distant 
reflection of the city’s lights. 

“Back again,” he cried joyfully as panting the 
great locomotive came to rest in the glass covered 
hall of the station. Having complied with the 
necessary formalities he passed out on to the 
platform of the Custom House. His porter 
hailed a cab, on the roof of which he piled the 
heavy trunks. When all was ready, his address 
was given to the coachman, the door was 

9 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


slammed to, the driver cracked his whip and 
away he rumbled towards his home. 

The rain was now falling steadily, a hard au- 
tumn downpour which splashed against the win- 
dows. With that keen sense of delight which is 
excited by the renewal of one’s acquaintance with 
familiar scenes he noted the shining of the street 
lamps on the wet wooden pavement, from which 
arose a damp tarry smell redolent of pleasant 
memories. On the sidewalks of the broad ave- 
nue the passers-by were struggling w T ith their 
umbrellas. 

A few moments’ drive brought him to the quai 
near the great hotels ablaze with light. On his 
left the brightly illuminated terrace of the casino 
was reflected in the dark waters of the lake and 
on his right shone the broad windows of the 
power station. Then, all this was behind him 
as the horse’s hoofs pounded on the hard asphalt 
of the bridge of the Mont Blanc. The opposite 
side of the lake which could now be plainly seen 
was outlined by misty electric lamps gleaming 
through the rain ; behind these like fireflies 
flitted the lights of the moving trams. At the 
pier a great lake steamboat was discharging its 
cosmopolitan passengers, who cursing or laugh- 
ing according to their nationality, were hasten- 
10 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


ing to seek refuge from the drenching rain. 
Across the harbor glided the ferry launch with 
the half-muffled sound of its gasoline engine. 

The bridge crossed, the carriage entered a long 
narrow street. In the darkness of gloomy pass- 
ages shone the red lights that hung before the 
temples of the priestesses of civilization — the 
shrines frequented by the worshippers of Venus. 
From upper windows descended the muffled 
sounds of pianos accompanying lewd songs, the 
words of which could not be distinguished from 
below. He knew that they were lewd, for often 
he had sat half dazed by smoke and alcohol in 
those stuffy rooms over the bars, listening to 
cadaverous tenors pouring forth their crude ob- 
scenity. 

At the corner of a gloomy alley his eyes fell on 
a harlot of the lowest grade, a street walker 
searching for her prey, her skirts soaking wet to 
the knees, her poor feathers and cheap finery all 
bedraggled and forlorn. The rain had streaked 
her painted, powdered, ghoul-like face with the 
dye from her hair. 

Turning to the left he was driven up the Cor- 
raterie across the Place Neuve, past the Theatre 
and thus into the residential quarter of the town. 
A few r squares further and the carriage drew up 

11 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


before the handsome apartment house of which 
he occupied the rez-de-cliausee. He jumped to 
the sidewalk, and, running up the short flight of 
steps, rang the bell and impatiently waited 
to be admitted. 

From the vestibule where he stood he could 
hear the sound of his wife’s voice as she sang at 
her piano in the library. “Come my friend I’ll 
be so good so sweet to thee” rang out in her clear 
soprano notes that beautiful song from “Sap- 
pho.” 

“A good augury,” he thought. “It is undoubt- 
edly of me that she is thinking.” A moment 
later the door opened, but to his surprise, it was 
a new butler that admitted him. “Why, where 
is Alfred?” he asked, “I hope he is not ill.” 

“Oh no, sir, Madame has discharged him,” re- 
plied the man in a respectful voice, in which, 
however, could be detected a note of surprised 
resentment. “Do you wish to see Madame — 
whom may I have the honor of announcing?” 

“You need not worry about that,” he replied, 
“I am Monsieur des Ormes himself. By the 
way, how long ago did Alfred leave?” It w^as 
decidedly an uncomfortable feeling that Jean 
experienced at finding himself thus treated as a 
stranger at his own door. “He left about three 
12 


An Unfinished Divorce. 


months ago, sir,” said the man in answer to his 
last question. “Well, help the coachman with 
my things,” he ordered as he stopped to pat a fox 
terrier who, at the sound of his voice, had 
bounded into the hall, barking with delight and 
jumping up to lick his face. 

“Hello, Jack,” he said, “you at any rate recog- 
nize me.” 

The singing suddenly stopped. 

“What is it Paul, who is there?” called 
Madame des Ormes to the butler, “What makes 
Jack so excited?” 

Before the man could reply Jean with rapid 
steps had gained the library. “It is I, Berthe!” 
he cried with outstretched arms. She sprang 
to her feet, upsetting the stool in her surprised 
haste, and confronted him pale and trembling. 

“What are you doing here?” she demanded 
when she had regained her self-possession suffi- 
ciently to speak. 

He stopped short, his enthusiasm killed by her 
words. His arms fell to his side. 

“What am I doing here, Berthe? Why really 
I do not understand your question.” 

“Did you not get my last letter?” she asked, as 
freeing her skirts from the fallen stool she walked 

13 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


to her arm chair on the other side of the room and 
sank limply into its deep cushions. 

“I received several letters, which do you mean 
by your last one?” he replied, recovering in a 
measure from the astonishment her conduct had 
occasioned. 

“Why the one I wrote you, asking you not to 
come back.” Scarcely had the words passed her 
lips when their needless cruelty became ap- 
parent to her, and she hastened to add: “That 
is, if you did not want to.” 

“Of course I wanted to, whatever could have 
put the idea into your head that I did not? But 
come, you are only making fun of me, you never 
wrote any such letter,” and he bent to kiss her. 
She raised her face to his, but turned away again 
so quickly that his lips barely touched her cold 
white cheek. The gesture was so indicative of 
indifference and so plainly showed the altered 
state of her feelings towards him that Jean was 
overwhelmed with dismay. 

“My God,” he exclaimed as stepping backward 
he fell into a chair. “Tell me,” he continued 
gently, “tell me about that letter and what 
made you write it.” 

“It is very simple,” and her voice was hard and 
unforgiving, “I wrote you a few weeks ago in- 

14 


An Unfinished Divorce. 


forming you that as far as I was concerned you 
could prolong indefinitely your stay in Africa. 
That I considered your disgraceful conduct had 
rendered impossible any future relations between 
us and had made it necessary for me to break 
definitely with you if I wished to preserve even 
a thread of self-respect.” 

He shook his head hopelessly. “Berthe, you 
are too hard on me. I would not have believed 
that you could be so cruel. It is all my fault, 
I know, but the idea that you, my wife, could 
even for a moment have entertained the thought 
of separating me permanently from my children 
and yourself is beyond belief.” 

She could not altogether overcome a feel- 
ing of compassion, so evident were his sorrow 
and despair, and it was in a softer tone 
that she said : “Come, Jean, do not be so 
cast down ; it is hard on you and I pity you, 
but remember how you have tried me and how 
often I have forgiven.” 

“I know it, Berthe, you have always been very 
good to me, very patient with me, but this only 
makes the blow the harder to bear. The last let- 
ters I received from you were so kind and loving.” 
The memory of her wrongs was revived by this 
reminder of the affection that she had, as she 
15 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


now thought, vainly lavished on her husband. 

“Were they?” she said, and there was a sneer 
concealed in her voice. “It is a pity you did not 
receive my last, it must have crossed you — and 
have you forgotten my earlier ones?” 

“I know nothing of the last except what you 
tell me and as for the others I forgive you those. 
You had your provocation and I am forced to 
admit that they contained a certain amount of 
truth. I must add, however, that there was much 
in them that was unkind and false. You know 
Berthe that you should not believe everything 
you hear.” 

“Why do you not call me a liar at once and 
have done with it?” she cried, trying to make 
herself believe that he had purposely insulted 
her. She hoped thus to quicken the anger, 
which was rapidly subsiding under the in- 
fluence of his distress. 

“You know perfectly well, Berthe,” he replied, 
and the sorrow in his voice caused her eyes to 
fill with tears, outraged even as she felt herself 
to have been, “that I do not deliberately accuse 
you of telling an untruth, but only of having 
been mistaken and of having been too harsh 
in your judgment. Do not misconstrue my 
16 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


words. I have done enough against you, it 
is not necessary for you to discover imag- 
inary wrongs” and he smiled sadly. “But tell 
me, dear,” he continued, “there is some- 
thing that I cannot understand. Your earlier 
letters were as you admit bitter and as I have 
said perhaps unjust, but later their tone com- 
pletely changed and they became affectionate and 
almost tender, such letters in fact that one would 
expect from a dutiful wife to her absent husband. 
And now, Berthe, “he held his hands towards 
her as he spoke “after a year’s absence you will 
scarcely kiss me. Tell me what I have done that 
you should thus suddenly change once more.” 

“I did not suddenly change,” and she raised 
her voice angrily. “This has been coming on for 
years. It was you, yourself, that drove me to it.” 
As her fixed intention of resisting to the utmost 
any softening influence became apparent, a feel- 
ing of despair invaded him. 

“But excuse me, dear, the change has been sud- 
den. You may not realize it, but such is the 
fact. In one of your more recent letters you 
enclosed a pretty photograph of yourself and 
Jack. Do you not remember writing that 
you had received my letter asking your forgive- 
ness and that you freely granted it and begged 
17 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


me to return? Can you not recall saying that 
you knew our ties were too sacred to be broken ; 
and that, if only for the children’s sake you 
would have pardoned me? Do you not remem- 
ber writing this, tell me, Berthe?” 

“I do not care what I wrote. I did not change 
suddenly, — I did not. Think of what your 
conduct has been for years past. You have 
done your utmost to destroy all the finer 
feelings of my nature. The devotion I gave 
you without grudging was like a great fire. 
You had become so used to its heat that 
you began to think that its warmth would 
never fail you. But you have trampled on it 
until at last it is extinguished. It is dead, 
quite dead, and no matter what you do, you can 
never kindle that flame again. Amid the cold 
ashes there lies not concealed the faintest 
spark.” 

“Not the faintest spark, Berthe, not the faint- 
est?” 

“No, Jean the fire is dead, and by your fault, 
by yours only.” Great tears welled in her eyes 
and overflowing coursed down her cheeks. She 
wept for her dead happiness as she had 
mourned the child she lost. At first the tears 
fell slowly, presaging the storm to follow. 

18 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


Then faster and faster they came and her form 
was convulsed with sobs. He should have let 
her weep. But when dad a man ever under- 
stand a woman’s heart? If her affection had 
been dead would she have thus wept its death*: 
No, he must needs interfere. 

“Come, Berthe/’ he cried in deep distress, “do 
not let your feelings overpower you. It can do 
no good and what you tell me explains nothing. 
If your affection was dead why did you forgive 
me and after forgiving me why do you speak 
to me as you do? There is something you are 
concealing.” 

At the sound of his voice she made an effort 
to collect herself. “Now you are making insin- 
uations,” she sobbed. “You are insulting me. 
I will not stay here to be insulted.” Before he 
could prevent her she had fled to her room and 
closed the door. He heard the key turn in the 
lock. 

“Something serious has happened,” he said 
to himself as he arose and wandered restlessly 
about the room. “During the whole eleven 
years of our married life she never acted this 
way before, although I must admit that there 
have been circumstances under which such con- 
duct would have been comprehensible.” 

19 


An Unfinished Divorce. 


He had had much experience, but he had not 
yet thoroughly learned his lesson. Does any- 
one ever thoroughly learn it? — that woman is 
fickle. Even had he believed this of all others, 
he had placed his wife in a class by herself and 
had admired, trusted and respected her, so now 
he attempted to explain her conduct in every 
way except the right one. He tried to find com- 
fort in the thought that she had been vexed by 
his prolonged absence and overcome by the un- 
expectedness of his return. He hoped that in a 
few moments she would draw aside the portiere 
and that he would hear her say in a low coaxing 
tone: “May I come in and show my naughty 
boy that I love him?” and that he would feel 
her arms around him and hear her whisper, 
“Does my old lover love his woman?” So he sat 
down and waited. 

He would not believe her when she insisted 
that her affection for him was dead. Perhaps 
his appreciation of her conduct was more influ- 
enced than he would have readily admitted by 
that vanity which is natural to all males. Mr. 
Peacock would not only consider himself a 
much injured fowl, but would also be genuinely 
surprised were Mrs. Peacock to look with eyes 
of favor on any tail feathers but his own, let 
20 


An Unfinished Divorce. 


them be as bedraggled and broken as you will. 
He was sure that she still cared for him; any- 
thing else was unthinkable. To him this was be- 
yond dispute, since man-like he readily believed 
that which accorded with his self-esteem. At 
length, tired of sitting still, he arose and gazed 
at a full length portrait of his wife which was 
hanging on the wall. 

Painted by Georgiano some two years after 
their marriage, when their eldest child was a 
baby a few months old, it was considered by the 
artist one of his finest works. The charm of the 
pose, the soft transparency of the brilliant 
coloring, the wealth of detail in the rich drap- 
ing of the gown, the contrasts of light and 
shade, and the harmony existing between the 
figure and the background, combined to make of 
it a masterpiece. 

As he studied the painting his attention was 
especially attracted to the hands which were 
very beautiful. He had always admired them, 
but this afternoon there was something changed 
in the appearance of those long slim fingers 
which he thought he knew so well, something 
about their texture and form unfamiliar to him. 
In the way she held her half-open fan he detected 
a something Spanish and coquettish which he 
21 


An Unfinished Divorce. 

had never before observed. From the hands his 
eyes followed the full downward sweep of the 
green brocade skirt until they rested on the 
little foot in its embroidered slipper, which 
seemed to be tapping the floor with a scarcely 
restrained impatience. Then he raised his head 
and looked the picture directly in the face. The 
living blonde hair formed a halo of light and 
joy around the oval countenance, with its clear 
pink and w T hite tints, smiling down on him, from 
above the exquisitely moulded neck and arms. 
The artist had painted the eyes green, so they 
must have looked that way to him. As for Jean 
he had never been quite sure w 7 hether they were 
green or blue. His gaze dwelling on the perfect 
curve of the mouth seemed to detect a mocking 
expression in the smile which slightly parted 
the full red lips. There was a barely concealed 
hardness about the face and although the look 
was frank and the chin rather weak it suddenly 
dawned on him that with all her apparent 
truthfulness and sweetness she could be unfor- 
giving and deceitful. He could 1 not have ex- 
plained how he read this in the pictured features 
of his wife nor why he saw it now for the first 
time. The artist, who had known her at the 
most a few months, had worked into his 
22 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


masterly production characteristics which years 
of closest communion had failed to reveal to the 
husband. It has been well said that one can 
never really know a face until he has attempted 
to sketch it. 

“This is curious” he said to himself, “and now 
that I come to think of it Georgiano never really 
liked Berthe. He admired her, to be sure, and 
was delighted at the opportunity I gave him of 
painting her, but he always seemed uncomforta- 
ble and ill at ease when she was near. This is 
the more peculiar since she was so much taken 
by him and exerted all her fascination to gain his 
friendship. His coldness was always a mystery 
to me. Most people at once fall victims to her 
charms — she is so beautiful and amusing and 
such excellent company. 

“But I wonder where Berthe unearthed this,” 
he said to himself as a statue of Krishna repos- 
ing in a niche to the right of the portrait at- 
tracted his attention. “It is certainly a very 
handsome piece of workmanship,” he added as 
he studied the object more attentively. “Pro- 
bably a gift from some admirer,” and he re- 
sumed his restless pacing. “People always 
spoiled her.” 

He walked to the mantel where stood the pict- 
23 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


ures of his children, and looked long and ear- 
nestly at them. “Dear little Jeannette,” he said 
as he raised to his lips the colored photograph 
of a baby six months old. “Perhaps after all it 
is just as well you died,” and he looked at 
the curly golden locks and the wide open blue 
eyes. “You were spared much suffering. Pray 
for your mother and for me, dear baby child. 
Your sweet prayers must surely move Him who 
said, “Suffer little children to come unto me, 
ffvbid them not, for of such is the Kingdom of 
Heaven.” The tears veiled his sight as he re- 
placed the picture. “Come now this is foolish- 
ness, get yourself together.” He lit a cigarette 
and rang the bell. 

“Did you ring, sir?” asked the butler when he. 
appeared. 

“How long ago did Alfred leave?” 

“About three months ago, sir.” 

“You have been here ever since?” 

“Yes, sir, I entered Madame’ s service the next 
day.” 

“What recommendations did you have?” 

“It was Monsieur Arthur Bornier, who was 
kind enough to personally recommend me to 
Madame,” replied the man, who was becoming 

24 


An Unfinished Divorce . 

uncomfortable under this series of curt ques- 
tions. 

“Very good. Do you know what wine there 
is in the cellar ?” 

“There is not very much. Madame was say- 
ing only yesterday that she would order some 
more.” 

“Is there any champagne?” 

“No sir, there is none at all. Madame has 
been entertaining a great deal.” 

“Then give us for dinner a bottle of whatever 
you have. You may go.” 

“So Berthe has been entertaining a great 
deal.” He felt troubled about it, although he 
could not say why. He poured himself a drink 
of brandy. As he set down the glass he heard 
the pattering of tiny feet and the glad cries of 
his children. 

“Dear father,” sobbed Marthe, the elder of the 
two, a pretty girl of ten, as she threw herself 
into his arms. “I am so glad that you have 
come back.” 

Meanwhile the baby boy Aim6 was wildly 
grasping him around the legs and crying, 
“Look, papa, look at this, see what Uncle Arthur 
gave me.” The child stopped his demonstra- 
25 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


tions long enough to point to a train of cars he 
had been dragging after him. 

“Very nice, my dear,” said his father, bending 
down to kiss the upturned face. “They are 
very pretty indeed, but who the deuce is Uncle 
Arthur?” 

“Why surely father you must know,” Marthe 
explained for her brother, “it is Monsieur Cor- 
nier, of course.” 

“Cornier,” he cried in surprise. “Does Mon- 
sieur Arthur Cornier come here?” 

“Why nearly every day,” answered Marthe. 
“Look what he gave me.” She held up her slen- 
der wrist, around which he perceived a thin gold 
bracelet. 

“Cornier again,” thought Jean to himself. 

“And how have you been Marthe since I have 
been away?” 

“Oh, father, I have been very well, but we 
have both missed you so much, have we not 
baby? Is he not a beautiful child?” she asked 
with sisterly pride, as she again hugged her 
father, who had seated himself and taken his 
boy on his knee. 

“And what has papa’s baby been doing?” he 
asked as he lovingly stroked his curly locks. 

26 


An Unfinished Divorce. 

“What did papa bring back for Aime?” asked 
the child. 

“Oh lots and lots of nice things. A stuffed 
baby crocodile.” 

“Croc’dile for baby. Baby shoot croc’dile” 
and he made the gesture of raising a gun to his 
shoulder. 

“And Marthe I have a riding whip of hippo- 
potamus hide for you. I brought other things 
as well, but I am sure that you will like this the 
best. We used to take such nice rides to- 
gether.” 

“I am much obliged to you father. Is not 
that lovely? Since you have been away I have 
taken many splendid long rides with Uncle Ar- 
thur. We had such fun the other day.” Her 
cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkled at the 
recollection. “We were riding through a field 
when a constable tried to stop us, but we were 
going too fast for him. Uncle Arthur is so jolly, 
you ought to have heard him make jokes at the 
man,” and she laughed merrily at the thought. 

“Has your mother ridden much this last 
year?” As Aime was growing restless he put 
him on the floor where he commenced to play 
at hunting crocodiles.” 

“A great deal,” replied Marthe. “Mother and 
27 


An Unfinished Divorce . 

I and Uncle Arthur go out two or three times 
a week.” 

“Run along now children, take jour brother 
back to nurse, it is getting near dinner time and 
I must dress.” He kissed the children and they 
left the room. “Bornier,” he said to himself, 
“so that man comes here.” 


28 


II. 


That evening when Jean and Berthe entered 
the dining room the former’s attention was at- 
tracted by the immense mass of pink roses with 
which the table was decorated. “What pretty 
flowers those are,” he remarked, “Did you send 
out and get them in honor of my return? If 
you did I appreciate it very much.” 

“No,” she replied shortly, and she looked if 
possible more cold and reserved than before. 
“They were a present.” 

Not wishing to annoy her he questioned her 
no further, but devoted his attention to the soup. 
“I am glad to see that you have not changed 
the cook. No one but Celestine can make such 
a puree a la reine as this. By the way, now I 
think of it, I had quite forgotten to ask you 
what Alfred did that made it necessary to dis- 
charge him.” She frowned at her husband and 
glanced towards the butler who was arranging 
the service on the side table, his back turned to- 
wards them. 


29 


An Unfinished Divorce. 

“I understand,” said Jean, “What are you 
taking?’’ he continued, as his wife stirred a pow- 
der into the wineglass of water standing by her 
plate. 

“It is veranol. I am forced to use it, other- 
wise I do not sleep,” she explained, and the 
glance she threw at him as she spoke signified 
“and it is all your fault.” 

“Be careful or the next thing you know you 
will be getting into the drug habit.” 

“It is better that I should get into the drug 
habit than into the habit of not sleeping.” 

The last course had been removed. “Berthe,” 
he asked, “Shall we have coffee here?” 

“I never take any myself, and it is a matter 
of perfect indifference to me whether you take 
it here or in the library,” she replied. 

“Serve the coffee and bring the liqueurs and 
cigars,” he ordered the butler. “You do not 
mind my smoking?” 

“Why do you ask me, you always have smoked 
when I was in the room?” 

“You have changed in so many ways that I 
thought you might object, but since you do not 
I will take advantage of your permission.” He 
lit his cigar. “Tell me,” he continued when the 
30 


An Unfinished Divorce . 

man had left the 'room and they were alone, 
“what did Alfred do?” 

“You seem to interest yourself a great deal 
in a servant. When you leave me alone for a 
year or so it seems as if I might have the right 
to direct my own household.” Her voice was 
low with contained rage. 

“I do not question your right,” he replied 
soothingly, “but Alfred had been with us so 
many years — ever since we were married, in 
fact, and appeared so attached to me that I am 
interested in knowing in what way he offended 
you.” 

“He was extremely impertinent and I will not 
stand impertinence from anyone — you under- 
stand me, I say from anyone — not even if he 
was very much attached to you” She raised 
her voice, as overcome by her anger she lost her 
self-control. 

“Calm yourself Berthe, do not get so excited. 
No one wants you to put up with impertinence, 
but what did he say?” 

“You have absolutely not the slightest right 
to question me in this way, but if you must know, 
he talked too much to the other servants.” 

“About you? I understand, let us drop the 
subject — it is as you say — of no importance,” 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


he added, as she flushed and was about to pro- 
test. “Now let us talk about yourself — will you 
kindly tell me what in Heaven’s name is the 
matter with you?” 

“The matter with me, there is nothing the 
matter with me, I never felt better in my life,” 
she replied, purposely misinterpreting him. 

“Please be serious, you know perfectly well 
that it was not your health that I referred to.” 

“Of course it was not, please forgive me my 
mistake. I quite forgot that that subject 
would not interest you,” she answered sarcasti- 
cally. 

“Berthe, please do not talk that w T ay, you 
must be aware that you are misconstruing me; 
I am quite easy on the score of your health, I 
never saw you look better or handsomer in your 

life.” 

But she would not be softened. “Ah you 
are beginning to pay me compliments, are you? 
I suppose that having just returned from a long 
voyage you realize that after all I may be a ra- 
ther desirable woman. You begin too late; the 
time for such things is past — they no longer 
affect me.” 

“Dearest, you know that there never was a 
time when I was not glad to get back to you and 
32 


An Unfinished Divorce. 


that I have always been your greatest admirer.*’ 

“That is very nice and kind of you I am sure, 
but I have no desire of being only a person to 
whom it is pleasant to get back.” 

“What I said I meant as a compliment and 
you know that perfectly well.” He could not 
refrain from smiling at her perverseness. There 
shone an answering gleam in her eye, but it 
lasted but an instant. If anything could have 
saved the situation it should have been their 
sense of humor, but even this was now power- 
less. It was in a relentless voice that she con- 
tinued: “From your point of view I suppose 
that it was a compliment, for I am aware that 
you men look on your wives as havens of refuge, 
as ports to put into in case of storm. You like to 
feel yourselves free to search elsewhere and yet 
to know that in case of failure there is some- 
thing steady at home. I know you well you see, 
but believe me I have no intention of serving as 
a reliable old horse. It amuses you to break in 
new beasts for your service, but you wish to keep 
in the stable one who never goes lame, who never 
balks, who is used to your ways and is always 
ready to serve you.” 

“Now Berthe, calm yourself and tell me why 
you think that I look on you in the light of an 
33 


An Unfinished Divorce . 

old horse.” His gentleness only exasperated 
her the more. 

“Do not be afraid I shall tell you. To begin 
with can you deny that you have been unfaithful 
to me and that now you have come back seeking 
forgiveness? Oh, no, I have had as much of 
your conduct as I can stand. You have insulted 
me by taking my friends as mistresses, you have 
neglected me. Everyone is talking about the 
way you leave me to go wandering for months 
and years in distant countries. I should like 
to know whoever has been treated like an old 
horse if I have not?” She paused for w T ant of 
breath. 

“But, Berthe, admitting all this to be true, 
you have forgiven me and I have returned rely- 
ing on that forgiveness. Do not be so hard,” he 
besought her. 

“I am not hard. But if I did forgive you I 
take it back. I do not forgive you any more.” 

“But I will not allow you to go back on your 
word. You can have discovered nothing new 
about me since you forgave, and to prove that 
you really did forgive I will quote to you from 
one of your letters, I know it by heart. ‘Dear- 
est,’ you wrote, ‘I received you loving letter and 
am glad to learn that you still care for me. I 
34 


An Unfinished Divorce . 

dreamed of you last night, that you were lying 
by my side. For the first time in, I do not know 
how long, I felt that you were where you be- 
longed, I felt at home with you. Come back to 
me. I am a handsome woman and you are wrong 
to leave me for so long. As you say our ties are 
too sacred to be easily broken — and then there 
are the children, we must think of them. You 
acknowledge that you have wronged me and you 
are sorry; so I forgive you. Let us begin over 
again and I am sure that we can make each 
other happy. We were married when we were 
so young and we have both been foolish. We 
all miss you, come back to your wife and chil- 
dren/ That is what your letter said.” 

“If I wrote thafi I was a fool. I suppose that 
I was lonely at the time. But it is useless dis- 
cussing the matter any further. My mind is 
quite made up and cannot be changed. You 
seemed to have forgotten that even if I am your 
wife I am still a woman.” 

“Berthe, you are not telling me the whole 
truth. You cannot make me believe that there 
has not been some sudden alteration in your 
feelings toward me. There must be some rea- 
son for this strange repulsion with which I seem 
to inspire you. Some new influence has entered 
35 


An Unfinished Divorce. 

into your life, and it prevents your forgiving 
me.” 

“You are crazy, Jean, I should think that 
your behaviour was sufficient explanation.” 

Jean puffed at his cigar. “Those were hand- 
some presents that Bornier gave the children,” 
he remarked irrelevantly after a moment’s si- 
lence and having knocked the- ashes into the 
saucer of his coffee cup he looked reflectively 
at the glowing tobacco. 

Berthe flushed with anger. “Monsieur Bor- 
nier is a friend of mine,” she said in icy tones 
“and I do not intend discussing my friends with 
you.” 

“Excuse me, my dear, but I was not discuss- 
ing him; I merely remarked on the exquisite 
taste that he displayed in the selection of the 
presents for the children. I consider my allu- 
sion rather flattering than otherwise. In fact 
to be frank with you I cannot remember ever 
having heard anything half so flattering said of 
him before,” was the sarcastic rejoinder. 

“I understand your insinuations and I am not 
surprised that you make them, for it was to be 
expected that one of your mean nature would 
add insult to injury,” she replied fiercely, “and 
36 


An Unfinished Divorce. 

if you do not change your tone I shall leave the 
room.” 

“Berthe, I did not mean to offend you.” He 
arose and laying down his cigar walked over to 
where she sat, and took her hand. She allowed 
it to remain in his, but it was cold and limp. 
“Berthe, my wife,” he said imploringly, “forgive 
me.” 

“Forgiveness is what you men always ask,” 
she answered listlessly, “yet under these cir- 
cumstances you yourselves are adamant. What 
would your answer be if it were I that was ask- 
ing for forgiveness?” He dropped her hand and 
resumed his place opposite her. 

“Berthe, how can you, a pure woman, even 
mention such things!” he replied in a shocked 
voice. “Cannot you understand that the faults 
are not the same; that you are attempting to es- 
tablish an equality between two acts that cannot 
even be compared.” 

She placed her elbows on the table and rest- 
ing her chin on her closed fists she looked him 
in the eyes? “And why not?” she asked. “Did 
not Jesus Christ forgive the woman taken in 
adultery? By what right do you lay down a 
different law from His?” 

“Our Lord’s connection with the event was 
37 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


that of an outsider. The woman to whom you 
refer was not His wife. Under similar circum- 
stances we all are willing to condone.” 

“Do not be profane.” She smiled in spite of 
her indignation which had been excited at what 
she considered his inconsistency. “But,” she 
resumed, “it is not fair that a man should be 
free to do that which would be ruin for a woman. 
You may say what you will, but it is horribly 
unjust.” 

“Berthe, we cannot enter into a philosophical 
discussion, but surely the physiological reason 
for the discrimination in our favor is evident. 
The consequences of a woman’s sin, the blow 
which it deals to the integrity of the family are 
incomparably more terrible, the doubt which it 
throws on the paternity of the children destroys 
the very basis of our society. Then again, a 
woman, unless she is a monster, loves the man 
to whom she gives herself.” 

“What beasts you men are anyway,” replied 
Berthe in tones of disgust. “You cannot make 
me believe that it is fair, that there should be 
two rules of conduct one for men and one for 
women. We should have the same liberty of 
action which you have arrogated to yourselves.” 

“There now, the cat is out of the bag and the 
38 


An Unfinished Divorce. 


perversity of the female heart is laid bare. 
What you are asking is not that all men should 
become as virtuous as are most women, but that 
women should be free to be as immoral as are 
all men. To be fair, however, I must admit 
that you are on the right road, if you are seek- 
ing equality, for as there could be but one equal- 
ity of intelligence — the equality of universal 
idiocy — as there could be but one of wealth — 
that of universal poverty — but one of culture — 
that of absolute barbarism : so there could be 
but one equality of morals between men and 
women — that of promiscuous license. You can 
level down, but you cannot level up. Women 
are on the mountain tops, we are in the valleys. 
It is impossible for us to attain your heights, 
but unfortunately it is only too easy for you to 
slide down to our depths.” 

She was still looking at him through her half- 
closed eyes. “That is very pretty and very com- 
plimentary, but (and I believe that I remarked 
it before) men are selfish beasts. It is not our 
fault if nature has decreed that we should bear 
the children, but you take advantage of the fact 
that you are more fortunate to excuse your per- 
jury and your ruthless wounding of us in our 
most sacred feelings.” 


39 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


“Well, dear, say what you will we can never 
agree on this subject, so now let us adjourn, 
I have finished my cigar.” 

They arose from the table and passed from the 
dining room through the salon into the library 
and took their seats before the fire as they used 
to do in the happy years that were no more. 
What sacred memories those walls enclosed ! 
Of bitter sorrow and of great happiness. It was 
hither that his arms had daily carried her dur- 
ing the long period of her convalescence after 
the birth of their first child. For what had 
seemed to him an eternity she had hovered be- 
tween life and death. He would never forget the 
thrill of joy which he experienced when he had 
learned that she was safe and that he was not to 
lose her. How ardent were the resolutions he 
had made in his gratitude to her for what she had 
undergone in his behalf. What vows of eternal 
love and faithfulness had fallen from his trem- 
bling lips! But as a woman “remembereth no 
more the anguish for joy that a man is born into 
the world,” so also are her sufferings as quickly 
forgotten by her husband. 

It was here that he had comforted her when 
after the funeral of their little Jeannette he had 
returned to the house which seemed so empty 
40 


An Unfinished Divorce. 


and silent without the lisping of her baby voice. 
Here the heart-broken mother had sobbed out 
her grief on his shoulder and in his presence 
and contact had found some alleviation for her 
woe. 

Each article of furniture and each orna- 
ment was endeared to them, and in them 
could be read the history of their married 
life — of their numerous voyages. For in their 
younger days they had traveled much together, 
but little by little as the years rolled by she had 
lost her love of movement and had allowed him 
to go alone. In this could probably be found a 
cause of their present infelicity. For his fre- 
quent absences had taught them that life was 
possible for each without the other: a knowledge 
which is fatal to the permanence of matrimonial 
bliss. This change in their habits could be de- 
tected in the altered nature of the later acquisi- 
tions, for to the bric-a-brac and furniture of 
civilized countries had been added the arms and 
accoutrements of savage nations. 

On the table of carved black English oak, by 
the cigars, lay an embroidery basket from which 
trailed various colored silks. This juxtaposi- 
tion was characteristic of the whole room in 
that it spoke exclusively neither of a man nor of 
41 


An Unfinished Divorce. 

a woman, but rather of an intimate union of the 
two. 

In addition to the portrait of Madame des 
Ormes, there adorned the walls numerous exam- 
ples of the modern schools — French, German 
and English. Over the doors hung portieres of 
rich Oriental embroidery and on the floor lay 
a magnificent Bokhara rug. The shelves of the 
long low mahogany cases were laden with books 
whose dark bindings were lightened by the glint 
of gold. On the mantle in silver frames stood 
the pictures of their children, and in front of 
Jeannette’s stood a vase which a mother’s hand 
kept always filled with fresh cut flowers. 

Both Jean and Berthe were softened by the 
subtle influences of the room and sat awhile in 
silence, each respecting the other’s emotion. 
Their differences, grave as they were, could 
not completely destroy the sympathy existing 
between them, that sympathy which is the re- 
sult of years of mental and physical contact and 
which may survive, even when affection has 
been replaced by hate. Aye, and more than 
sympathy was there between them, for since she 
had carried his children his blood coursed 
through her veins, they had become one flesh — a 

42 


An Unfinished Divorce . 

unity had resulted as immutable as the founda- 
tions of the world. 

Thinking it more advisable under the circum- 
stances to leave her undisturbed, Jean glanced 
at the clock. “It is about nine,” he said, “I 
think that I will walk around to the club and 
see if Maurice is there. You must be tired and 
are probably longing to seek your bed.” But 
he was prevented in his intention by the ringing 
of the doorbell. “Who is it, dear?” he asked as 
the butler presented her a silver tray on which 
lay a large sized visiting card. 

“It is Boula Omayat. Do not show surprise 
at his appearance,” she cautioned. “He is 
leader of the sect of the Mystics, with which 
many of our most intelligent and prominent 
women are affiliated. , Possessed of supernatur- 
al powers he has wrought many marvelous 
cures. Ask him to walk in,” she added, turning 
to the servant, who stood awaiting her orders. 

Even warned as he had been by Berthe, Jean 
could not repess a gesture of astonishment as 
Boula Omayat, throwing back the porti&re, 
paused on the threshold and with hands ex- 
tended saluted them with a solemn “Oom.” 
This mode of greeting was indeed strange and 

43 


An Unfinished Divorce. 


alone would have been sufficient to arouse cu- 
riosity without the added peculiarity of his ap- 
pearance. 

About sixty-three years of age, of tall and 
commanding presence, the thick masses of his 
dark brown hair, streaked with silver, fell in 
waves to his shoulders, and the bushy beard with 
which his face was masked descended several 
inches below his belt. From the midst of this 
forest of hair, so dense that it almost concealed 
the great hooked nose, looked out a pair of glit- 
tering black eyes remarkable for their brilliancy 
and fire. The full skirts of his light gray frock 
coat lined with red almost swept the floor, as 
after his moment’s pause he advanced, his hands 
still extended, towards the centre of the room. 

Jean had arisen and stepped forward to sal- 
ute his guest. “Touch me not!” the other cried 
when he became aware of his intention. “I am 
still vibrating from the utterance of the mystic 
word which has just fallen from my lips. So 
mighty and destructive are the vibrations which 
it induces, that if you were so much as to place 
your finger tips on mine you would be stricken 
to the ground Lo! Again I speak it: Oom! 
Oom!” he repeated, prolonging its pronouncia- 

44 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


tion until Jean almost fancied that he could 
feel himself overcome by the waves of sound. 

“What do you mean by ‘Oom’ and what does 
the word signify?” he asked, much interested. 

“Beware, young man,” cried the other so sud- 
denly and so loudly that Jean, startled, fell back 
a step. “Beware how without due preparation 
you pronounce that sacred word. More than 
one has fallen victim to his temerity, who unin- 
itiated has allowed it to pass his lips. Were I 
so to desire I could by its means uproot the py- 
ramids from their foundations and cause the 
Eiffel Tower to bow its haughty crest and lie 
prone in the dust.” 

“Please be careful then how you use it in my 
house,” remonstrated Jean, who by this time had 
recovered from the surprise excited by the new- 
comer, “for I have here a large and valuable 
collection of china and bric-h-brac, which it 
would greatly distress me to see destroyed.” 

“Do not scoff, unbeliever,” cried Boula, in 
threatening tones. “When you were afar I saw 
you and knew your acts — that they were evil. 
Your poor wife in tears came to me, imploring 
aid and comfort, and from me she shall have 
them even at the cost of your destructon.” 

“Calm yourself, Monsieur Omayat, lower your 
45 


An Unfinished Divorce. 

voice — the children are asleep. Now I must 
beg you to excuse me. Do not disturb yourself, 
but sit down and have a cigar while you ex- 
plain your mystic sayings to Madame des Ormes. 
My dear, I congratulate you on the friends you 
have made while I was away. Good bye, I wish 
you a pleasant and instructive evening.’’ A mo- 
ment later they heard the front door close be- 
hind him. 


46 


III. 


In a retired section of the older part of the 
city, not far from the Hotel de Ville, stood a 
handsome building of the style and epoch of 
Louis constructed around the three sides of a 
was constructed around the three sides of a 
court, whose fourth side was separated from the 
street by a wall, through which a wide door gave 
access to the house within. Everything about 
the place was solemn and drowsy and so few 
were the passers-by that the sound of a footstep 
was sufficient to startle the sleepy porter, who 
day in and day out sat nodding in his lodge. 
The neighboring edifices were all of the same 
general type, and from their walls projected 
brackets, supporting lamps, which at night did 
their best to lighten with their flickering flames 
the darkness of the deserted street. 

It was an exclusive and aristocratic quarter, 
but the exclusiveness was provincial and there- 
fore respectable and dull. Some of these habi- 
tations were still in possession of the descen- 
dents of the patrician families of the Republic 
47 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


by whom they had been built, but many, through 
the decaying fortunes of their former owners, 
had passed into the hands of the newly-rich. 

The hotel itself, with whose description this 
chapter opens, had been built by the Rainures, 
one of the most distinguished families of the 
old aristocracy. Their arms; Azur a chevron 
or, accompanied by three crosses botonny of the 
second and surmounted by a count’s coronet, 
could still be seen carved in the stone above the 
portal. 

The last male of the house, Count Raymond 
de Rainures, an officer in the service of France, 
had been killed, hunting in Corsica, about the 
beginning of the reign of Louis XVI. Never hav- 
ing married, his entire fortune together with the 
family residence had passed to his sister, his 
only surviving relative. This latter dying had 
left as sole heiress a daughter whose marriage, 
which had occurred late in life, had proved 
childless. The daughter was an eccentric woman 
and having lost her husband shortly after their 
union she had led up to the time of her death 
the life of a recluse. With a hatred such as 
can be felt only toward the members of one’s 
own family, she had detested her re’ations and 
at her demise it was discovered that all her 
48 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


worldly possessions, which were large, had been 
willed to her gardener and his wife. 

Not caring to occupy so vast an establish- 
ment, as the Maison Rainures the new owners, 
quite as much surprised as anyone at their 
ow r n good fortune, had rented it to the 
Whist Club, the most fashionable organization 
of its kind in the city. Visitors to this club 
w 7 ere few and far between and the salons were 
generally deserted except for the presence of a 
few old gentlemen. However, the card room 
was favored with a certain amount of popularity 
and was often occupied until early morning by 
the devotees of baccarat, and it was not uncom- 
mon for large sums of money to change hands. 
Indeed, there w r as a story current of a Russian of 
exalted rank, who one night had played and lost 
his entire fortune, and had only been saved from 
ruin and disgrace by the personal intervention 
of the Czar. 

TWards this abode of respectability and pro- 
vincial exclusiveness Jean had directed his steps 
after leaving his w T ife. Her acceptance of 
mystic doctrines and teachings surprised and 
puzzled him. Since their marriage she had 
been frankly worldly in her tastes and he could 
not imagine what had thus w T arped her mind. 

49 


An Unfinished Divorce. 


But when we leave for protracted periods those 
near and dear to us, especially when there has 
been a serious misunderstanding, strange and 
unlooked for events are liable to occur. New 
plants spring up to fill the places left empty by 
the removal of the old and, alas, too often these 
new plants are but weeds. How frequently one 
returns to find himself a stranger, and less than 
a stranger, in his own familiar abiding place. 

On entering the club he awakened the slum- 
bering porter by a touch on the shoulder. “Has 
Monsieur Maurice de Paquis arrived?” he in- 
quired. 

“Not yet, sir, but he generally drops in about 
this time” replied the old man arousing himself. 

With an amused smile Jean watched him 
gradually doze off again and then made his 
way to the reading room where buried in great 
leather covered armchairs he found three or four 
decrepit habitues nodding over their news- 
papers. The deep silence was broken only by 
the crackling of the blazing logs and by an oc- 
casional snore from one of the sleeping party. 

At a table, carelessly turning over the period- 
icals, which were there spread out, stood a hale 
old gentleman, whose sunburnt complexion con- 
trasted most pleasingly with his snow-white hair 
50 


An Unfinished Divorce. 


and whose whole appearance was suggestive of 
life and energy. At the sound of Jean’s step he 
looked up.” “Jean, my boy,” he exclaimed 
heartily, “I am glad indeed to see you back 
again after your long absence. It is over a year 
since you left us, is it not?” 

“Just about, — it was a year last month, to be 
exact. I hope that you have been well and that 
Madame de Muriel has been the same,” he re- 
plied as he carelessly picked up a copy of the 
Illustration in which were depicted scenes from 
the recent revolution in Russia. 

“My wife is very well indeed, thank you. 
Come out to Saint Leger to-morrow and see us; 
she will be very much offended if you do not.” 

“Thank you. I will ride out to-morrow after- 
noon. Meanwhile give her my most affectionate 
and respectful greeting.” 

“I will tell her to expect you. Come early, 
and, by the way, your friend the Pastor Poirier 
will be there. Good night, I must be going, I 
have a long drive before me,” and giving his 
hand a vigorous shake, the old gentleman with 
a half contemptuous and wholly amused glance 
at the sleeping company took his departure. 

Left alone, Jean selected a comfortable chair 
in a dark corner and, while waiting for Maurice 
51 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


de Paquis to arrive, reviewed in his mind the 
events of the day and meditated on the unex- 
pected turn that his life seemed about to take. 

“It was curious that Berthe should have 
changed so,” he reflected, “and that the change, 
despite what she says, should have been so sud- 
den. Of course it is a great deal my own fault, 
I should have been more careful and remem- 
bered that if a man does not look out for his 
own wife someone else will, for interest in an- 
other man is the only explanation of Berthe’s 
conduct. But then we men are so conceited that 
we are always sure that we shall prove to be an 
exception to the rule. Also we make the mis- 
take of thinking that the physical repulsion we 
feel towards other males is felt in the same man- 
ner and to the same degree by our women. The 
idea that a wife could ever care for anyone 
but himself is so abhorrent to a husband 
that he eliminates even the possibility of 
such an event from his calculations. Then 
Berthe, though still exceptionally handsome, is 
arriving at the age when a woman is apt to be 
unduly sensitive. The thought that her hus- 
band’s neglect may be due to her fading charms 
and not to the inconstancy natural to man has a 
tendency to make a wife at her period of life, 
52 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


resentful. She has undoubtedly been sur- 
rounded by flatterers who have turned her 
against me by insisting on my too well-known 
infidelities. Well, we must hope for the best 
while we fear the worst. It seems to me that 
Maurice is very late this evening. He may have 
come in and gone directly to the card room. I 
will go and see.” 

As he reached the head of the flight of stairs 
leading to the quarters w r here the gambling was 
carried on, the sound of angry excited voices 
scarcely muffled by the closed door, fell on 
his ears. “I wonder what can have happened,” 
he thought, as he turned the handle and entered 
the room. By the table stood a man and on the 
floor behind him lay an overturned chair, while 
scattered at his feet were a number of gold coins 
and bank-notes. He was possibly thirty years 
of age and his weak boyish face w T as almost 
green from shame and humiliation. 

“So, Muzart, we have caught you at it again,” 
exclaimed a gentleman seated at the table, ap- 
parently the banker. In him Jean recognized 
Monsieur de Tourville, one of Geneva’s most pro- 
minent and respected citizens. 

“What is wrong?” he asked, much surprised 
at this unexpected scene of disorder. 

53 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


“It is only Muzart caught cheating again/’ an- 
swered an elderly player — Marrin, whose broad 
white beard made him a striking likeness of the 
King of the Belgians. — “He was detected push- 
ing a hundred franc note over the line.” 

At this mention of his shameful act the poor 
wretch, overcome by the realization of his plight, 
turned a piteous glance on the newcomer. 
“Mercy!” he murmured as he shrank back. 

“Mercy!” cried Monsieur de Tourville in scorn- 
ful surprise, “you ask for mercy when this is the 
second time we have detected you. No, there 
can be none for such as you. Leave the room be- 
fore you are kicked out.” 

“Wait a moment,” remonstrated Jean, trying 
to calm the storm. “I am w r ell aware it is none 
of my business, but it would be much better, if 
possible, to keep the matter quiet. A scandal 
would do no good and in these days of rampant 
socialism, it is better that we should wash our 
dirty linen in private.” 

Thinking that here might be a ray of hope 
Muzart looked at the speaker imploringly. “It 
is not so much for myself I ask it, but for my 
wife’s sake, for the sake of my innocent little 
children. Have mercy upon me. Oh, God!” he 
cried in heartrending tones as he threw himself 
54 


An Unfinished Divorce. 


sobbing on his knees, liis hands extended in ap- 
peal. “Oh, God! Is there no hope? Do not 
bring this disgrace on Jeanne — you know how 
good and sweet she is. Spare her; she is worn 
out now by trouble and anxiety. This blow 
would kill her. Mercy !” And he wrung his 
hands in agony.. 

“You should have thought of her before,” said 
Tourville, hardening his voice, though with a 
perceptible effort. 

“So I did, I tried to play fairly and until this 
evening I had done nothing wrong. I swear it 
to you. But luck has been against me. I could 
not bear too ask my poor wife for money to pay 
my losses. She trembles so when I tell her that 
I have been losing and turns so pale. She never 
reproaches me, but the silent tears show that her 
heart is breaking. My God! my God! I cannot 
bear it.” 

“You should have given up playing long ago. 
No man has the right to rob his wife and chil- 
dren,” said Jean, speaking calmly to cloak his 
emotion. 

“What is the use of talking that way to me?” 
asked Muzart wildly, and he shivered, though 
the perspiration w T as streaming down his face. 
“Of course I ought not to have played, I know 
55 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


that, but I could not help myself. I shall go 
mad. My poor Jeanne, my little children.” And 
he sobbed convulsively. 

“Come,” said Tourville, and now he could 
scarcely suppress a note of distress at the sight 
of the poor unmanned creature. “Get yourself 
together. We forgave you once for your wife’s 
sake and maybe we shall do so again. Muzart, in 
all your shame and humiliation,” and his voice 
softened, “you may thank God for that precious 
gift. You have something which but few, even 
of the richest and the best, have known the joy 
of possessing: the steadfast and unfailing affec- 
tion of a true woman.” 

“How shall I break it to her? I cannot do it. 
I had rather shoot myself than tell her.” With 
these despairing words, Muzart arose from his 
knees and sinking into a chair, covered his face 
with his hands. One by one the hot tears drop- 
ped between his fingers. 

“For his wife’s sake we must do something. 
We cannot allow this scandal to get abroad,” 
ventured Marrin, passing his fingers rapidly 
through his beard. 

“Yes, on every account,” assented Jean, “the 
matter must be hushed up.” 

“As I was the principal party concerned this 
56 


An Unfinished Divorce. 

evening,” said Tourville, “will you give me full 
power to settle the affair and agree to stand by 
my decision?” Without hesitation they all 
consented. 

After a moment’s reflection Tourville turned 
to the poor wretch. “Muzart, for your wife’s 
sake, whom we all admire and esteem, we are not 
going to be too severe. All of us here present, 
will give our word never to reveal what has 
happened thisi evening. On your part you must 
keep it from your wife, it is she we wish to 
spare. You must give us your solemn pledge 
never to play again, and also hand in your re- 
signation immediately. Explain your action by 
saying that you are forced to cut down expenses. 
Under no circumstances must you ever again set 
foot within these doors. Will you promise?” 

Little by little as the hope revived of keeping 
his disgrace from becoming public, Muzart raised 
his head but it was with a voice still broken by 
sobs that he replied : “Anything, — I will promise 
anything to spare her.” 

“Then go to that desk and write out your 
resignation.” Muzart arose and staggered to the 
writing desk. With a hand that trembled he 
wrote out the required document. An absolute 
silence meanwhile prevaded the room. Though 
57 


An Unfinished Divorce. 


they were men of the world and men of experi- 
ence, each felt that he had, as it were, a share 
in the wretch’s shame. It is hitter to see one of 
one’s own kind brought so low. 

Having finished, he handed the letter to Tour- 
ville. No word passed his lips, but his look 
made up of shame, gratitude, resentment and 
humiliation was one never to be forgotten. He 
moved toward the door and fumbled for the han- 
dle. An instant later, he had left the room for- 
ever. 

“I still hold the bank,” said Tourville roughly. 
The others seated themselves and resumed play, 
but Jean, hoping that Maurice had arrived, left 
the room and went downstairs. 

He entered the library, where he found Mau- 
rice absorbed in the Gaulois. 

“Just read that,” said the latter, when his 
friend’s presence had been brought to his atten- 
tion. “I see here that the Pope has been work- 
ing miracles with his old slippers. Did you ever 
read such nonsense? How can any paper pub- 
lish such foolishness?” 

Jean laughed. “You might at least congrat- 
ulate me upon my return, before entering into 
a religious discussion,” he said, “However, see- 
ing that it is you, I forgive you.” 

58 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


“I behold you before me looking well. Why 
should I waste my breath in useless inquiries? 
When did you arrive?” Although the saluta- 
tion was unusual, the tone of deep affection in 
which the words were uttered more than com- 
pensated for their seeming coldness. 

“I arrived this evening just before dinner. 
Will you not join me in a drink? I have some- 
thing very important to say to you.” He seated 
himself by his friend and touched the bell for 
the waiter. 

“What was all that row in the cardroom?” 
queried Maurice, sipping his Scotch and soda. 

“What row? I have just come from there. 
There was no row that I know of,” replied Jean 
carelessly. 

“I thought I heard something, but I must 
have been mistaken. It is of no consequence. 
You were about to say something to me?” 

“Have you ever heard of one Boula Omayat?” 
asked Jean. “He is a long-haired freak and, I 
should imagine, some kind of an occult sky- 
pilot.” 

“Oh yes, I have often heard of him. In fact 
I have even assisted at some of his seances. The 
women seem to be crazy about him, for amongst 
his other charms he possesses a foolish jargon 
59 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


that particularly appeals to their — but what 
makes you ask? Have you already met him?” 

“Yes,” replied the other. “He was at the 
house to-night. It appears that Berthe is rather 
a disciple of his. Do you know where he comes 
from?” 

“No one can say with any degree of cer- 
tainty. Some claim that he is a Russian spy and 
others a Nihilist. He may be both or neither for 
all I know. He drifted here like some modern 
Cagliostro, and Bornier who always gets hold of 
queer people, took him up. He is quite the rage 
amongst the women, especially the temperamen- 
tal women, who in America are gathered in by 
the Christian Scientists and other faith healing 
sects. I do not mean any reflection on your 
wife, but the mystical and the pseudo-scientific 
always have appealed to the fair sex, particu- 
larly to such of its members as have had disap- 
pointments in love affairs.” 

“He is a. friend of Bornier’s? of Arthur Bor- 
nier’s you mean?” asked Jean, who had paid no 
attention to the latter part of his companion’s 
explanation. 

“Why, do you ask?” said Maurice, looking at 
his friend curiously. “Is there any reason why 
he should not be?” 


60 


An Unfinished Divorce . 

“On the contrary. Birds of a feather flock 
together.” 

“Rather hard on Arthur, is it not?” remarked 
Maurice, beginning to wonder at his friend’s 
warmth. “You seem to be prejudiced against 
him.” 

“Are you surprised?” replied Jean, not yet 
wishing to fully explain himself. 

These two had been united since their child- 
hood by the closest ties of friendship. Together 
they had passed through college and the univer- 
sity. Together they had performed their mili- 
tary service in the old First Company of Guides, 
the finest cavalry organization in Switzerland. 
Their boyhood intimacy had! even survived 
Jean’s marriage, a rare occurrence, for a woman 
cannot tolerate the friends of her husband’s 
bachelorhood. 

Maurice de Paquis was tall and slender. His 
black mustache was closely trimmed, and his 
lioflest sceptical soul looked out through a 
pair of clear blue eyes. Always dressed in the 
height of fashion, he was, however, in no sense 
of the word a fop; and, although appearing on 
the surface to be nothing more than a man 
about town, he was on the contrary of a deeply 
serious nature. Affecting to be never occupied 
61 


An Unfinished Divorce . 

by anything of a more important character than 
his social duties he surprised those with whom 
he came in contact by his learning. Was it 
fiction that was being discussed, he had read the 
latest novels in English, French and German. 
Was the drama the subject of conversation, not 
only was he well versed in the tragedies of the 
ancient Greeks, but he was also thoroughly ac- 
quainted with the productions of the present 
day; and from his conversation it was ap- 
parent that he was on terms of intimacy with 
some of the foremost playwrights. He had mem- 
orized the scores of many operas, and was an 
accomplished musician. Philosophy and reli- 
gion, from the neo-manicheanism of the Eddy- 
ites and the veiled mysticism of the Emmanuel 
movement, to the profound thinking of an Aris- 
totle, a Leibnitz, a St. Paul or a Descartes were 
perfectly familiar to him. His personal belief 
could be expressed by the words “I do not 
know.” He freely admitted, however, that he 
was sceptical of his own scepticism, and 
claimed that the logical absurdity to which this 
led was the surest proof of the correct- 
ness of his position. “For if,” he said, “we 
could with the finite instrument, which is the 
human mind, arrive at a logical explanation 
62 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


of the infinite mystery which is the origin of 
things, the logical nature of the explanation 
would be sufficient proof of its own falsity. 
Trust to science, but do not believe in it. Dis- 
cover and live by those rules of conduct which 
experience has shown to be conducive to the wel- 
fare of ourselves and others, without attempting 
to investigate too profoundly their rationality. 
For any system pushed to its logical conclusion 
produces an absurdity. And though it is pos- 
sible to reason by an absurdity, it is impossible 
to live by it. How can we be happy unless those 
around us are equally so?” His philosophy was 
hedonistic and utilitarian. “Cast thy bread 
upon the waters, and it shall return unto thee 
after many days.” 

Maurice was welcomed in the highest circles 
of the capitals of Europe and counted among 
his friends members of some of the reigning fam- 
ilies. He had been in the diplomatic service and 
though a young man had fulfilled several impor- 
tant missions to the entire satisfaction of his 
government. 

After a moment’s pause, Jean began, “Mau- 
rice, there has been trouble between Berthe and 
myself.” 


63 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


“That is too bad,” replied Maurice, sympa- 
thetically, “I hope it is not serious.” 

“So serious that I have reason to believe that 
Berthe intends divorcing me,” he answered in a 
dejected tone. 

“But what is it all about? There must be 
some explanation for her acts,” said Maurice, 
looking quizzically at his friend. 

Jean half smiled as he replied, “You know as 
well as I do with what grievances she reproaches 
me, but I am convinced that she has some other 
motive.” 

“But why worry, she is not in a position to 
prove anything against you,” remarked Mau- 
rice philosophically, “is she?” 

“That I do not know. But even if she were, 
her position would not be very strong, for I have 
her letter in which she writes that if I really 
love her, any infidelities that I might commit in 
my travels would be readily pardoned.” 

“What a curious thing to write. She might 
have thought it, even have insinuated it — but to 
write it.” 

“I suppose,” said Jean, taking his wife’s de- 
fence, “that in her estimation marital faithful- 
ness is a question of geographical limits. Evi- 
dently deceiving one’s wife when ten thousand 
64 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


miles away is quite a different matter from do- 
ing so in the city in wdiich you reside, especially 
if it is a small one. Then I believe that she was 
so fond of me that she would have done any- 
thing to increase my well-being and comfort, 
there being no slight in a husband’s unfaithful- 
ness when far away. 

“Yes. That is evident. And even more, I be- 
lieve that a woman who would not object in the 
slightest to her husband’s infidelity with cocottes 
would highly resent any such proceedings with 
a woman of her own rank. But I am a bache- 
lor and only speak from hearsay,” concluded 
Maurice. 

“Your impression is correct, for Berthe her- 
self has told me as much. And now having set- 
tled the point that she has no valid cause of 
complaint can you tell me” — here Jean hesitated 
— “what influence can have turned her against 
me?” 

Maurice reflected a moment. “I cannot say 
that I can,” he replied. 

“What conclusion would you draw from this?” 
asked Jean, “I return and find our old butler 
Alfred dismissed and his place taken by a crea- 
ture of Bornier’s. My children talk of nothing 
but ‘Uncle’ Arthur, referring to this same Bor- 
65 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


nier. My wife has become the dupe of some 
fraudulent mystic. Whose protege do I find 
him to be? Boraier’s!” As Jean continued he 

raised his voice, “G d him! I am pur- 

suaded that it is he who is the cause of every- 
thing.” 

“People will hear you if you speak so loud,” 
cautioned Maurice. “There is no use getting 
excited about it. First determine the exact- 
ness of your suspicions then we can decide on 
what to do. Above all take no violent measures 
without consulting me. Promise me this.” 

“Yes, 1 promise you, but”, and Jean’s face as- 
sumed an ugly expression, “if I find that it is 
Bornier who has influenced Berthe against me, 
I pity him. That is all.” 

“Do not forget your promise. Be careful, 
here comes Gamier,” he cautioned, as they were 
interrupted by the approach of a short dark man 
with extremely bright eyes and a heavy black 
mustache. His clothes were flashy and there 
were too many rings on his fingers. 

“So here you are back again, des Ormes,” 
said the newcomer cheerfully. 

“Yes, here I am again at home. Will you 
not sit down and join us?” 

66 


An Unfinished Divorce . 

“Certainly, with pleasure, but I have only a 
moment to spare.” 

“Maurice and I,” explained Jean, “have been 
discussing women, marriage and divorce.” 

“Good God, what frightful themes,” cried 
Gamier comically. “And what does Maurice 
think of them?” 

“Many things,” replied the latter, “and first 
of all, you may be surprised to hear me say so, 
but I thoroughly disapprove of divorce.” 

“Therein I heartily disagree. Blessed be he 
who invented that most beneficial institution,” 
cried Gamier emphatically. “My ex-wife, the 
mother of my children, as I call her, and I, 
agreed before we married, that if either found 
the tie becoming irksome, the other would join 
in asking for its dissolution. As you know, we 
carried out our pre-nuptial agreement/ 7 

“But look,” remonstrated Jean, “at the ex- 
amples we have amongst our friends — of couples 
who on the verge of divorcing refrained from 
doing so and how thankful they are that 
they acted as they d d. Time softens so many 
things and events with the lapse of years are 
wont to assume their proper proportions.” 

“And I imagine,” replied Gamier, “that there 
are others who regretted all the remainder of 
67 


An Unfinished Divorce. 

their lives that they did not take the step in 
time. Not to speak of those who, miserable 
with their first choices, are living happily with 
their second. However that may be, God 
knows that we must do something to curb the 
growing insolence of the fifth estate. Yes,” he 
explained, as the others looked up in surprise, 
“we had the rebellion of the third estate against 
the power of the nobles and the church. Then 
came the rising of the workers, or as they are 
sometimes called, the fourth estate, against the 
oppression of the possessors. And now the fifth 
estate, woman, lovely woman, is in open insur- 
rection.” 

“Of course, Gamier, you recognize that this 
is a decided step backward,” said Mauice reflec- 
tively, “a return to a mord primitive civilization 
— I might even say to a more primitive type of 
being. You see,” he continued, “specialization 
is the sign of progress. The doctrine of evolu- 
tion might be defined, as a statement of the line 
along which heredity or succession with vari- 
ation differentiates and specializes, converting 
the homogenous into the heterogeneous. An 
example of this is the division of labor, such a 
marked feature of our epoch.” 

“I do not doubt the correctness of your defini- 
68 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


tion,” said Gamier, “but what on earth has it 
to do with woman’s rights?” 

“Why everything. Primitive forms of life 
are hemaphroditic in their nature. Higher in 
the stage of development we find the male and 
the female, each with its separate functions. 
Finally, after many steps we arrive at the human 
family; the wife risking her life in child-birth, 
the husband his on the field of battle, in the de- 
fence of his home. The male going out into the 
world to procure the food ; the female remaining 
in the house to care for their joint offspring. 
Each task as noble as the other. But now the 
fair sex wishes to rob us of our specialty. Women 
wish to compete with us in the economic field 
and by thus combining two functions they would 
force society into making a decided step back- 
ward — from heterogeneity to homogeneity.” 

“All I can say,” broke in Gamier, “is that we 
ought to specialize a bit more. Do as the Greeks 
did. Keep our wives at home to bring children 
into the world and to look after them. Then 
organize another class of women, quite as highly 
respected, who would serve to amuse us with 
their conversation and by their charm and 
beau tv comfort us and give us relaxation after 
the troubles of the day.” 

69 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


“But there* is such a class,” said Jean. 

“Maybe there is, but it is not respected as it 
should be,” laughed Gamier. “And talking of 
cocottes,” he continued, “have you ever noticed 
that pretty women are interested in them, 
whereas ugly, angular ones hate them?” 

“Often,” replied Maurice, “and I believe the 
explanation to be that these latter look on their 
frail sisters as false comrades. The good work- 
man is not afraid of the non-union' man, but the 
poor one is. These cocottes , underbid the 
market, by not insisting on permanent engage- 
ments, and thus make it more difficult for those 
to find mates whose only assets are their en- 
forced and hateful virtue.” 

Gamier smiled. “Thank you for your explan- 
ation. You throw a new light on the subject. 
Goodnight, I must be leaving. My compliments 
to Madame.” And he sauntered off. 

“And now, Jean,” said Maurice, “cheer up. 
You are still young and if the worst comes to 
the worst, charming as Berthe is, there are other 
women in the world. Above all, do not take 
things practically. Meditate on these lines of the 
ancient Greek poet : 

‘Thou feel’st but little pain or smart, 
Unless thou’lt feign and act a part.* 

70 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


Come, we will run over to the casino; Rita is 
expecting me. The change will do you good.” 

Jean consented, and in a few moments they 
were driving past the old Hotel de Ville towards 
the lower town and the bridges, on the other 
side of which lay their destination. 


71 


IV. 


The yearning of the human soul to draw 
back, where it but a little, the curtain that con- 
ceals with its impenetrable folds the mystery of 
the origin of things is inappeasable. The soul 
longs to predicate of the infinite and to reduce 
to terms or relativity the self-existant. 

As long as religion is content to restrict it- 
self to its philosophical domain and is satisfied 
with its role not of explaining — that were im- 
possible — but of attempting to explain what the 
nature of a first cause might be, and of inculcat- 
ing certain hypostasized rules of conduct, all is 
well. A few miracles, if frankly attributed to a 
direct and special intervention of the Deity, 
could not be considered objectionable, on the 
contrary, they would by their appeal to our 
credulity and love of wonder, aid religion in her 
difficult task as a regulator of human action. 

So long as Science remains within its legiti- 
mate sphere, which is that of ascertaining and 
collating facts and of drawing from them their 
logical conclusions, it is man’s greatest aid. But 
72 


An Unfinished Divorce. 


let it once soar off into the realm of the unknow- 
able, let it advance theories to explain the gen- 
eral scheme of things — in one word — let it dog- 
matize; and it becomes more dangerous to 
human progress than the lowest superstition. 
Let it once use the words “I believe” and it is 
lost. 

A young man once said, and he was very 
young indeed, “Religion is nonsense, I be- 
lieve in evolution.” As if evolution were a 
question of belief or as if it did more than point 
out the series of steps by which progress has 
been made. It attempts no explanation 
of the impelling force. It were as mar- 
vellous to see an inert body mount the stairs, 
step by step, as to behold it at one bound nego- 
tiate the entire flight. It is a question of de- 
gree and not of kind. 

In like manner religion when it attempts to 
furnish solutions for natural phenomena stul- 
tifies itself; but the most disastrous conse- 
quences may be looked for when an unholy al- 
liance is openly formed between the two. When 
the ecclesiastic attempts to cloak his thauma- 
turgical operations with a covering of scienti- 
fic nomenclature, it is indeed time to call a 
halt. Their pseudo-scientific jargon appeals to 
73 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


the unintelligent and to those who possessing 
neither the capacity nor the ability to acquire 
true erudition desire, nevertheless, at small 
expense of time and trouble to appear before 
their friends as luminaries of wisdom. It is 
easier to become a Christian Scientist than 
either a Christian or a scientist, the former de- 
manding unselfishness, the latter calling for 
prolonged effort. 

With the decay of a traditional religion and 
the growth of a purely materialistic conception 
of life, it were rash to venture an opinion as to 
which of the two is the cause and which the 
effect. Scores of strange and occult beliefs 
make their appearance. They glow on the rot- 
ting faith as phosporous on a corpse. Nor are 
our own times an exception, for to-day phenome- 
na may be observed similar to those occurring in 
the eighteenth century. Counts of Saint Ger- 
main and Cagliostros abound under other names 
and disguises. On every hand we find new cults 
arising and even the old and heretofore respec- 
table religious organizations are being affected 
by the movement. And it is natural that oc- 
cultism and healing sects should flourish in a 
materialistic age. Occult science was the phy- 
sical science of the middle ages and occultism 
74 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


is in a certain sense the glorification of matter 
endowing it as it does with certain virtues. 
Why, after having for so long declared the age 
of miracles to be past, are the Protestant sects 
now turning their attention to the cure of di- 
sease, if it is not that they recognize the over- 
whelming importance that physical well-being 
has acquired in the eyes of their adepts? Mrs. 
Eddy, if any intelligible signification may be at- 
tributed to her writings, denies the existence of 
matter; yet her claim as leader of a new reli- 
gion is based on her pretended powers of pro- 
curing to her followers the advantages of health 
and wealth. Her position is illogical, but con- 
sistent with her aims. 

We are now on the crest of a wave of occul- 
tism and some day the reaction must come. For 
this reason, great as Wagner undoubtedly is, it 
is not probable that from the standpoint of 
drama his work will ever be more than sporadi- 
cally popular. In his occultism he is but a 
symptom of the tendency of the day as are the 
leaders of other healing and esoteric movements. 

Berthe was no exception to this general rule. 
In her youth her passionate nature had express- 
ed itself in religious fervor and in a blind at- 
tachment to the Church of Rome; an ardent 
75 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


faith in whose teachings had been one of her 
pronounced characteristics. New emotions had 
since her marriage forced these feelings into the 
background and little by little her belief had 
fallen from her until naught of it remained, 
save a vague sentimentalism which made her es- 
pecially receptive to occult teachings. Let us 
now return to her and Boula Omayat. 

When after Jean’s departure, they found 
themselves alone Boula sank to the floor and 
beneath the niche, where reposed in peaceful dig- 
nity the statue of the Krihsma he crossed his 
legs in the familiar sitting posture of a Yogi. 
With eyes tightly closed, forwards and back- 
wards he rocked, droning out in sleepy tones a 
monotonous repetition of his “Oom,” “Oom,” 
“Oom.” 

Although Madame des Ormes was possessed 
of a keen sense of humor, such influence had 
this strange being acquired over her that the 
ridiculousness of the situation failed to appeal 
to her. It did not appear unnatural or strange 
that her middle-aged guest should sit on the 
floor cloaked in his luxuriant hair, his gray coat- 
tails spreading over the dark red of the Bokhara 
rug, while in a sing-song voice he chanted 
his cabalistic term. The ceremony to her 
76 


A n Unfinished Divorce . 


seemed of the greatest moment and import- 
ance. In conformity with instructions she stared 
intently with wide-open eyes at his sway- 
ing body and strained her ears to catch every 
modulation of his dull low voice. So fixed was her 
attention that it was not long before she had 
fallen into a semi-hypnotic state and the ob- 
jects that surrounded her, losing the sharpness 
of their outlines, appeared to her as in a glass, 
darkly. Then in a far-away voice Boula began. 

“My sister,” he said, “you are an adept ini- 
tiated into the mysteries of our holy faith and 
well know that ‘Oom’ is the name which in 
trembling reverence we apply to the Divine love. 
Never as you value your soul’s health let it pass 
your lips in the presence of that ribald scoffer 
whom you still call your husband.” He ceased 
and once more for a time became absorbed in 
contemplation. Then rising, — and to his dupe’s 
distorted view he seemed to float through the 
air, — he glided in the steps of a mystic dance 
over the rug and the polished floor to where she 
sat. From a silver flask of Oriental workman- 
ship he sprinkled her three times, uttering at 
each aspersion his “Oom.” 

“This water,” he explained, as he resumed his 
place, “was brought at the expense of tears and 
77 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


blood from the sacred river Bad-a-bil, hidden 
far in the depths of the Himalayas. On the 
banks of this stream for many years, years that 
I cannot count, has sat a mighty Yogi whose 
name it were death to mention. In ages long 
gone by he concentrated himself on Krishna and 
with time he made that concentration absolute 
and constant and now he has absorbed the at- 
tributes of Krishna and he has absorbed the 
love of Krishna. It was he who added to the 
already sacred nature of this water by blessing 
it. As sure as to-morrow’s sun shall rise it shall 
bring happiness on him on whom its wonder 
working drops shall fall.” 

“How may I thank you?” she said. The cool 
water had partially aroused her, but through her 
clenched teeth the words were scarcely intelli- 
gible. “All I have is money and that is but 
dross.” With an ecstatic movement she flung 
her golden purse at his feet. 

“Sister,” he replied as he clutched the jewel- 
led bauble, “the task alloted me on earth was 
not the amassing of wealth and treasure, but the 
comforting of the broken hearted, the healing of 
the sick and the showing forth of the truth. Not 
long since I was called to a desolated home, 
where on his bed lay the father cold and stark, 
78 


An Unfinished Divorce. 

sleeping his last sleep. At my call the flown 
spirit once more returned to its earthly habita- 
tion. What mysterious depths had released 
that spirit from their thrall? Who can know 
or who can tell? Who would dare to fathom 
such inscrutable mystery? When the wife of- 
fered me gold I scornfully refused. Such gifts 
as mine are not for sale. From this learn my 
thoughts.” 

“Forgive me, Boula, and also pardon him who 
after the flesh is the father of my children.” 

“Know my sister that there is no fatherhood 
save one only,” and his voice was filled with re- 
proach. “Yet since for a short space this 
mocker is still your earthly husband, I, at your 
request, will spare him. But the hour is at 
hand when your bonds shall be broken and you 
shall be united to your soul’s affinity. But sil- 
ence now,” he continued, “and listen, for to your 
believing ears I am about to reveal the far 
distant past and show you as you were in former 
incarnations.” Crossing his arms his oscilla- 
ting movements ceased, his eyes became fixed 
and stony, his body stiff and rigid. At last he 
spoke, and his voice sounded as if it came from 
a great distance. 

“Now I have achieved my aim,” she heard him 
79 


An Unfinished Divorce . 

say, “for Krishna has disappeared and the pearl 
— the great pearl — which hung between the 
eyes of Krishna is gone, and I can perceive 
naught but the imaginary point which it cov- 
ered on his divine countenance. Now thou 
takest form before me as thou wert when cen- 
turies and centuries ago thou didst live and 
walk a princess of Babylon. Thy scented ebon 
hair is bound with strings of gems and on thy 
forehead gleams a wondrous diamond, but its 
light is not brighter than thine eyes. Thy volup- 
tuous form is clothed in royal purple. Thought- 
less, beautiful and happy thou makest the joy 
of thy father’s court, but thou givest no care to 
thy soul’s salvation. What is this that is now 
made clear to me, that between thee and thy hus- 
band all is not well? Now there appears an- 
other, a man knowing and practicing the truth. 
A great love binds him to thee and thee to him, 
but thou wilt not open the heart to receive the 
spirit of all things. Thou dost close the door 
of the soul. For this sin — the great and only 
sin — thou shalt suffer. I see thee dying, call- 
ing for thy lover, from whom thou shalt be sep- 
arated until such time as due expiation shall 
have been made. Meanwhile thy soul wander- 
eth in the forms of beasts and pariahs. Now 
80 


An Unfinished Divorce. 


the time of thy salvation draws near for thou 
hast learned to know and acknowledge that 
which is and without which there is nothing. Be 
sure thou shalt not lose thy reward.” He 
ceased and with a si^h resumed his normal 
manner. 

A feeling of displeasure was aroused in Berthe 
by his words. The scarcely veiled allusions to 
her difficulties with Jean were exceedingly dis- 
tasteful to her. Not that she felt the slightest 
diminution of her anger, but she was actuated 
by that instinct of solidarity which impels a wo- 
man to resent any reference to her domestic diffi- 
culties and to take the defence of her husband. 
She herself may speak of her troubles and com- 
plain of his acts, but her indignation is aroused 
by another’s meddling, even if she was the first 
to broach the subject. The fact that her love 
passages with Arthur were thus almost openly 
hinted at came upon her as a shock even in her 
half-dazed condition. 

Something in her attitude revealed to the keen 
perception of the Yogi that he had gone too far 
and his sensitive nature quickly detected the as 
yet undefined attitude of hostility which his 
words had provoked. Desiring above all things 
to retain the influence which he had acquired, 
81 


he determined to regain, by exciting her supersti- 
tious dread, the ground which he had lost. With 
this intention he excused himself for a moment 
and left the room. 

When he reappeared he carried a large satchel, 
from the depths of which he produced a variety 
of articles. “This,” he explained, as he placed 
on the table a plate which presented the 
appearance of being of chiselled gold, “is the 
mystic disk on which shall repose the antidelu- 
vian toad. This toad,” he continued, as he took 
the reptile from its coffer and lovingly handled 
it, “I discovered imbedded in the solid rock. In 
this inviolable retreat he had lived since the 
world’s early youth, until I, by my arts, released 
him. When Adam for the first time looked on 
Eve in the Garden this creature had existed for 
uncounted ages. Yea, when years before even 
this remote epoch he, our first father, clasped in 
his embrace his demon wife Lileth, it was scarce 
younger than to-day. Now behold that which 
has been given to but few mortals to gaze on.” 

With these words, into which he had infused 
all the solemn meaning that his marvellously 
souple voice was capable of conveying, he placed 
the reptile in the salver and from a gourd en- 
graved with Christian symbols he poured water 
enough to wet its feet. “This water,” he in- 
formed her, “was blessed by the Pope himself, 
82 


An Unfinished Divorce. 


and in this box,” with impressive gesture he held 
before her eyes a casket of finely wrought gold, 
“is contained the Sacred Host. All is ready.” 
He approached Berthe, who half-dazed, with 
trembling mouth, was watching his proceedings, 
and by a few passes produced in her once more 
a state of semi-hypnotism. When the arrange- 
ments had been completed to his satisfaction, he 
extinguished the electricity. The room was 
dark, save for the flickering light of the taper he 
had placed beside the toad. 

“Be careful, Chela,” he cautioned her in 
warning tones. “Be careful how you breathe, 
for the breath is the pendulum of the mind. 
Breathe fast and excitement will agitate your 
soul. Breathe slowly and your being will be 
pervaded by infinite peace. Forget not this 
warning, for the devil is about to appear in- 
carnate in your presence. Once before did he 
take form at my behest and show himself to him 
who was regent of France during the minority 
of Louis XV. He the master of the world shall 
become as if he were of matter. How great a 
miracle! For as the tenets of our belief have 
shown you, matter does not exist. It is but 
nothing vibrating infinitely fast, and is there- 
fore nothing.” 


83 


An Unfinished Divorce. 


What followed seemed to Berthe’s half-stupi- 
fied senses the illusions of some horrid dream. 
First the Yogi baptized the toad in the name of 
the Father and of the Son and of the Holy 
Ghost. Then anointing it with the consecrated 
oil he confirmed it in the faith. He gave it abso- 
lution from its sins and conferred on it the sac- 
rament of orders. In the abnormal state to 
which her will power had been reduced the hyp- 
notized woman did not so much as utter the 
feeblest protest. But when Boula taking the 
consecrated wafer placed it in the grinning 
mouth of the unclean reptile, every fibre of her 
nature rebelled, her self-control returned and 
she sprang forward to prevent the sacrilege. 
Her resistance was but momentary, for the Yogi 
by a pass forced here to resume her seat and pro- 
ceeded to accomplish his impious designs. As 
the last words of the sacrament of extreme unc- 
tion fell from his lips the toad began to kick 
and leap spasmodically Slowly in the darkness 
a figure took shape before her frightened eyes. 
No sign of sex was there about its naked form. 
The face in the dim light was beautiful and sad. 
In the eyes Berthe seemed to read all the wis- 
dom of the universe. 

“Lo! I. the Master of the World, am here be- 
84 


An Unfinished Divorce. 


fore you. At your summons I have come. What 
will you of me?” cried the apparition. The voice 
filled the room as with the swelling tones of a 
great organ, then it faded until it became as 
gentle as the sighing of the summer breeze 
among the tree-tops. 

“Oh! Master, grant to this, my disciple, that 
she may know what the future has in store for 
her,” said the fakir in a reverential voice, as he 
bowed himself to the ground, his arms crossed 
on his breast. 

“Great happiness shall be hers,” and again 
the organ tones pervaded the apartment. “Great 
happiness shall she know, since she has come to 
me who hold in my hand the secret of all things 
and the gifts of joy and beauty. It was I who 
in the Garden of Eden, essayed, by endowing 
man with life and knowledge, to free him from 
the evil and the ills his ignorance entailed. But 
in His jealousy mine enemy the God of Israel 
cursed me, and my strivings were in vain. Lest 
man should become even as Himself, He forbade 
his eating of the fruit of the tree of knowledge, 
and since then the human race has wallowed in 
ignorance and sin. For ages hath the world been 
crushed beneath the foot of the priests, who, at 
Jehovah’s behest have essayed to bury all in an 
85 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


impenetrable darkness. But useless have been 
their efforts. The spark of wisdom lit by Adam 
in the Garden, by his refusal to submit and to 
obey, hath never been allowed to die. My follow- 
ers hidden in the distant corners of the earth 
have through all ages nursed the precious ele- 
ment, at times fearing for their lives at the hands 
of God’s servants. But now my day is come. I 
am beautiful and strong with youth, God is 
shrivelled and impotent with years. I offer you 
joy and light and love; He, but suffering, dark- 
ness and the coldness of the monk’s cell. Bow 
thy knee to me, acknowledge me to be thy master 
and thou shalt learn to know happiness and joy.” 

As the significance of these words penetrated 
Berthe’s deadened consciousness she shud- 
dered. The Yogi once more bow T ed low and the 
apparition faded. 

“Chela,” said Boula softly, “you heard the 
Master’s word.” As he spoke he passed his hand 
across her forehead. With a start she came to 
herself and gazed bewilderedly about the room. 
“To-morrow, as was arranged, I lunch with you,” 
he continued. “Now others call me and I must 
be gone.” So saying he departed. 

It was a long time before Berthe was suffi- 
ciently herself to reflect collectedly on the events 
86 


An Unfinished Divorce. 


of the evening. “What does this mean?” she 
thought. “Can it really be that it is the devil 
who promises me joy and happiness? Shall I 
accept his gifts or shall I cry, 'Get thee behind 
me Satan ?’ ” 

After all, she was but a weak woman battling 
against her better self. She had striven for years 
to retain her husband’s affection and to show 
herself worthy of the trust the birth of her chil- 
dren had imposed, and now her efforts having 
proved vain can we blame her for hesitating 
whether or not to seek her happiness where she 
thought it lay? Her sudden passion for Arthur 
seemed to promise her a compensation for the 
bitter disappointment which had been her life 
with Jean. 

Arthur, for purposes of his own, had known 
how to take advantage of her weaknesses. He 
had expressed his admiration for her in the 
thousand and one ways that render the would-be 
lover more pleasing to the object of his assidui- 
ties than the lover, and even the latter more 
agreeable than the husband. There in the room 
filled with those many sacred memories she sat 
and pondered. 

She had loved Jean when she had married him, 
and even now after 'all her wrongs, there re- 
87 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


mained at the bottom of her heart a certain ten- 
derness which even the violent revulsion in her 
feelings had failed to kill. She had admired 
him for his strength and intelligence, although 
w T ith this admiration there was mingled a slight 
contempt for his irresolution and incapacity. 
Repeatedly had she forgiven him his notorious 
infidelities and striven by her caresses to regain 
her dominion over his impressionable heart. 

Divorce had been rendered repugnant to her 
through the influence of her earlier education 
and the teachings of the Catholic Church, of 
which in her youth she had been such an ardent 
member. But to what other conclusion could 
her love for Arthur lead? To be sure she could 
accept him as a lover, but the thought of the re- 
sulting dual intimacy filled her with disgust. 
Besides, she felt that the concealment neces- 
sary for the carrying on of an intrigue and the 
difficulty of being discreet in a small city would 
in the end dishearten her. 

Then the memory of her wrongs came over 
her in a flood of horror and disgust. “Ah ! All 
these years of misery and neglect,” she cried; 
“the thought drives me mad. I cannot bear it 
and I will not.” Alas, all these years of misery 
88 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


and neglect. Was it really as bad as this? Were 
there no bright spots amid the dark shadows? 
Reader, did you ever watch a range of snow-clad 
mountains towards the set of the sun? First 
in their majestic purity they stand forth white 
and gleaming in the full glare of day. Then 
pink and glorious they shine with the bright- 
ness of the Alpine glow. As the shadow 
lengthen, darkness embraces them and they con- 
front us black and forbidding. It is not differ- 
ent with the events of our lives. They are bright- 
ened and rendered beautiful by the light we call 
love, or made hideous by the darkness which is 
known as hate. The events are the same, nor 
have the mountains changed ; yet all is different. 

As she recalled to her mind the past, and re- 
hearsed the history of her wrongs, it seemed to 
her as if she felt once more the pang of actual 
physical pain which had pierced her heart, when 
first she had acquired the certainty of her hus- 
band’s infidelity. That feeling of horror and 
disgust was renewed which had invaded her 
whole being, when the truth had been forced 
upon her and she could no longer close her eyes. 
This sentiment had been aroused not so much 
by the knowledge of the wrongful act which had 
been his, as by the thought that she had been 
89 


An Unfinished Divorce. 


made a party to it; that in a certain measure 
her own body had been polluted. 

She heard once more in her ears the tone of 
her husband’s voice as he pleaded with her; she 
felt once more the tears of gratitude which had 
fallen on her hands when she had freely for- 
given. For a while, she remembered, he had 
been faithful to his renewed pledges, then 
rumors of a new entanglement had been brought 
to her by loving friends. This time the blow 
had not come as such a shock, and consequently 
her distress had been less keen. Again she had 
forgiven, and again he had proven untrue. And 
so she had continued forgiving his frequent fail- 
ings, concealing even from herself her evergrow- 
ing desire for revenge. As time passed, her sor- 
row became less acute and she had passively 
consented to sharing him with his mistresses. 

His absence had brought matters to a climax 
and in this year there had been lost to him the 
power which is inherent in constant personal 
contact. “Poor Jean,” she thought, as in the 
stillness the clock ticked the minutes away, the 
same clock that had ticked the minute of her 
baby’s death, “Poor Jean, perhaps he does love 
me, who can tell? But when I think of how 
unhappy he has made me, I wonder why I have 
90 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


remained faithful to my vows, he has broken 
his so often. Why should not I have taken a 
lover as so many of my friends have done? 
Arthur would, I am sure, be only too willing to 
accept the role. I have thought of this, but al- 
ways at the last moment I have drawn back. 
Decidedly I was made to be an honest woman. 
Is it possible that a man ever really respects the 
woman that has given herself? I once asked 
Arthur this question. He, of course, said ‘Yes.’ 
What else in his position could he say? But I 
am afraid that he was lying. I suppose it de- 
pends a great deal on their characters and how 
deep and true their passion is. If she has acted 
from a mere caprice, he surely must despise her, 
though the case may be different if they really 
love. Then there are the children to be taken 
into consideration. A divorce would certainly 
be hard on them. But I cannot help it, it is all 
his fault, he should have thought of them him- 
self.” 

Exhausted by the emotions of the day and 
rendered sleepy by the drug absorbed at dinner, 
she retired to her room. As she undressed, the 
familiar surroundings recalled to her the many 
times when in this self-same room her heart had 
beaten wildly at the sound of her husband’s step. 

91 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


But resolutely she put the thought away from 
her, and soon was tossing in a restless sleep, 
whose dreams were filled with visions of devils 
and of Arthur. 


92 


V. 


Although Geneva does not depend for her 
prosperity, as do so many of the other towns of 
Switzerland, on the influx of tourists during the 
summer season, it has been thought proper to 
make some provision for the amusement of such 
travelers as honor the city with their visits. With 
this object in view a casino or kursaal has 
been built, in a commanding position on the 
quai which borders the right bank of the lake. 
From its terrace a magnificent panorama greets 
the eye of the loiterer, sipping, his cooling drink 
at one of the little tables there placed for his 
convenience. To the right lies the harbor, pro- 
tected by a breakwater whose extremity is orna- 
mented by a miniature lighthouse. Above and 
back of the modern buildings, by which this har- 
bor is encircled, rises the hill covered by the old 
city and crowned by the towers of St. Peter’s. 
To the left spread the waters of the lake, dotted 
here and there with the lateen sails of the stone- 
bearing barges. Across its brilliant blue the 
vine-clad hills of Cologny are to be seen sloping 
93 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


to the water’s edge, in autumn bright with brown 
and golden tints. In the middle ground stand 
the Saleve and the Voirons, and back — far, far 
away, in the depths of Savoy, rise the snow-clad 
Alps, whose mysterious heights are dwarfed by 
the Mont Blanc towering in its majestic 
grandeur. 

In the interior of the above mentioned estab- 
lishment are to be found reading rooms fur- 
nished with newspapers from all parts of the 
globe, for the information of its cosmopolitan 
clientele. There is also a theatre, in which high 
grade vaudeville performances are given, and 
last, but not least, handsomely decorated gamb- 
ling rooms and a well-appointed bar. 

Although games of chance on any part of the 
territory of the Swiss Confederation are for- 
bidden by the Federal constitution, the u petits 
eheveaux ” are here tolerated, presumably on the 
ground that they are not roulette. There is a 
great deal in a name for, as many New Yorkers 
know, the “sacred concert” is not a variety show, 
and an antique sandwich is frequently mistaken 
for a meal. 

The thoughtful visitor who, standing by, 
should watch in the glare of the electric light 
the mingled crowd of gentlemen and adventurers, 
94 


An Unfinished Divorce . 

of ladies and cocottes, pressing around the gam- 
ing table, would be surprised that such a scene 
could be enacted in the austere city of Calvin. 
Things have indeed changed since that bilious 
reformer decreed that pleasure was sin and that 
only a long face could be pleasing to the Al- 
mighty. Perhaps, however, the reaction has 
been too severe, and in our pursuit of pleasure 
we have grown indifferent as to what is sin and 
what is consistent with the principles of the all- 
seeing Father. But in case of doubt let us de- 
cide the question in our own favor, for it is bet- 
ter to enjoy than to be mournful, and, if when 
we die we shall be called to give an account of 
the works done in the body, it is those things we 
have left undone, and not those which we have 
done, which will count the heaviest against us, 
as the parable of the sheep and the goats quite 
clearly shows. 

Leaving philosophy, let us return to the 
casino. As has been insinuated, amongst its 
habituees were counted many ladies who could 
not with any reasonable hope of success lay 
claim to the prize for virtue. In fact, to be 
frank, the unchaste sisterhood was here repre- 
sented by its members most in vogue, and 
by its choicest beauties. Amongst others 
95 


An Unfinished Divorce . 

assembled in the gambling hall, the evening that 
our story opens, was Rita, the acknowledged 
mistress of Maurice de Paquis, awaiting the 
promised arrival of her protector. Small, dark 
and vivacious, the pecuniary advantages which 
had resulted to her from this entente cordiale 
were reflected in the glittering elegance of her 
gown. The negligent way in which she threw 
her five-franc pieces on the table, and the su- 
preme indifference with which she saw them 
raked in by the voracious croupier, would have 
proclaimed to even the most casual observer that 
she had fallen on good days. What matter if 
she did lose, for, paraphrasing the words of the 
late King Milan of Servia “was not Maurice still 
there ?” 

At Rita’s side, neatly but less handsomely 
gowned, and more careful of her resources, stood 
her most intimate friend, Ninette, still dis- 
tressed over the recent death of her lover 
Charles Morniac, a most excellent but impecuni- 
ous young man. Unlike Rita, she was quite 
poor. The small provision that had been made 
for her was exhausted, and she was sup- 
porting herself, until such time as she could dis- 
cover a more permanent source of supplies, by a 
most distasteful promiscuity. She was a 
96 


/in Unfinished Divorce. 


slender, fair-haired, charming, little crea- 
ture, who under happier circumstances would 
have made an excellent wife, for her heart over- 
flowed w T ith devotion to the man at whose ex- 
pense she happened to be living. 

Many others there were, some few young and 
attractive, but the majority old and worn, with 
haggard chalky faces, w r hose dead white the bril- 
liant electric illuminations rendered still more 
ghastly. From these powdered masks, to w T liich 
the blood-red lips lent a clown-like appearance, 
from beneath the masses* of blond and curly 
hair, bold black eyes looked out in search of 
clients. 

The atmosphere of the hall was oppressive and 
trying; the dampness drifting in from the 
rainy night had intensified the penetrating 
qualities of the perfumes with which the air was 
laden, and had increased the acridity of the odor 
feminae exhaled from the nervous and excited 
women. All were in constant motion and the 
high-pitched voices of the girls, mingling with 
the deep tones of the men, produced on the ears 
the effect of a loud buzz, over which at regular 
intervals predominated the calls of the croupiers. 

Elbowing his way through the crow r d a large 
97 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


and powerfully built individual advanced to- 
wards where Ninette and Rita were standing. A 
small head with low browed bearded face, whose 
sensual features spoke of passions uncontrolled 
by any higher feelings, surmounted the herculean 
form and the long arms terminated in im- 
mense hairy hands. The thumbs were short, 
wuth broad flat nails, the fingers square and 
thick at the roots. Everything about the man 
bespoke the low and brutal. 

“Hello, little girl,” he said, with a pronounced 
Russian accent, when he had gained Rita’s side. 
From his greater height he looked down into 
her corsage, and in a voice so low that only 
she could hear, he made some remark, which, 
from the leer in his face, was unquestionably 
indecent. Not having to rely for her daily bread 
on a universal cordiality, Rita resented his in- 
pertinence and ordered him to leave. He paid 
no attention to her indignation, except to give a 
loud insulting laugh. He had been followed by 
a young man who, placing himself at Ninette’s 
elbow commenced recklessly throwing his money 
on the table. This man, about thirty years old, 
though not of unpleasing appearance, was 
excessively bad style, being what the English 
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An Unfinished Divorce . 


would call a “bounder,” His manner was of- 
fensive, and liis actions towards the woman 
showed the profound contempt in which he held 
her — a contempt which is felt by no right-minded 
gentleman towards the unfortunates of her pro- 
fession. She, poor girl, not being as inde- 
pendent as her friend, was forced to restrain her 
anger. “Hornier,” she said, “you seem to have 
a bad run this evening. Do you not think you 
had better stop or let me play for you? It might 
change your luck.” 

“There is plenty more where this came from,” 
said Arthur, “and, anyway, do you think I would 
be so green as to allow you to play for me? No, 
my friend, I am on to your tricks and the tricks 
of all of your kind.” At which Ninette 
turned her head away. “What is the matter? 
What makes you huffy?” he continued, grasp- 
ing her by the elbow. 

“Leave me alone, you have no right to act that 
way,” she remonstrated. 

“No right? Why any man has the right to act 
as he pleases with you, if he pays. Here, take 
this,” and he held her out a louis. She struck 
it from his hand to the floor. 

“Stop,” said a young man, Jacques Grandin 
99 


An Unfinished Divorce. 


by name, who happened to be passing. “Do you 
not see that you are annoying her?” 

“Mind your own business,” replied Arthur. 
Having had enough of play, he signed to the 
Russian to follow, and disappeared in the direc- 
tion of the bar. 

The rain was still pouring steadily as Jean 
and Maurice hurried from their cab across the 
wet pavement, glistening under the light of the 
sputtering arc lamps, and were engulfed in the 
cosmopolitan throng. 

“There is Ninette talking to Rita,” said Maur- 
ice, as he forced his way in the direction indi- 
cated. “So she is back from Paris. Yon know 
her, do you not?” 

“If you mean poor Charles Morniac’s Nin- 
ette, of course I know her. Where is she? I 
shall be glad to see her again, and Rita also.” 

“There they are, standing by the table in the 
middle of the hall.” As Maurice spoke, Nin- 
ette, glancing over her shoulder, recognized them 
and beckoned smiling. “Why, Ninette, how do 
you do?” said Jean, when through the press 
around the table he had succeeded in gaining her 
side. “You are looking as charming as ever.” 

“Do you think so? I do not know whether 
or not you are telling the truth, but anyway I 
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An Unfinished Divorce . 


am glad to see you back. Since we last met I 
have been in deep trouble. My poor Charles! 
I miss him so much, and life has never been the 
same to me since his death. But let us not think 
of these sad things; tell me about yourself and 
what you have been doing this long while.” 

As for Rita, having saluted Maurice with an 
engaging smile, she was excitedly complaining 
to him about the Russian’s conduct. “Really, 
Paulovotich had no right to speak to me as he 
did, nor to look down the front of my dress. I 
am a respectable girl, I would have him know. 
He had better be careful or I will tell Masoushka 
of his conduct.” 

“What did he say to you?” asked her lover, 
who, although angered at the man’s imperti- 
nence, could not help being amused at his little 
friend’s indignation. 

“Never you mind, my dear,” she replied, tap- 
ping him with her fan with one hand, and with 
the other tossing a coin on the table, “but I as- 
sure you it was extremely indecent.” 

“Shall I go and thrash him?” 

“No, he is not worth it. Leave him alone. He 
and Bornier make a fine pair.” 

“Yes,” continued Ninette to Jean, “it was ter- 
rible about my poor Charles.” She paused a 
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An Un finished Divorce . 


moment to look at him invitingly — “But the 
world will not stop for any one of us. He was a 
good friend and a generous one. His family 
helped me too, but money will not last forever. 
Since he died I have seen hard times.” 

“Here, try your luck with this/’ said Jean, 
passing her a five franc piece. 

“Thank you — see I put it on the number 
seven, for Charles and I were together twice 
seven months. Perhaps it may bring me luck.” 
As the horses stopped whirling, “Number six 
wins!” cried the croupier, and her wager with 
many others was gathered in by his greedy rake. 

“You see,” she said, “luck is against me in 
everything.” 

“Try again; luck is bound to turn,” he en- 
couraged her, as he gave her another coin; but 
again she lost. After several more turns of the 
little horses, unsuccessful as far as she was con- 
cerned. “There is an empty table in the bar,” 
she said: “let us have something to drink, I am 
thirsty.” Nodding to Maurice and Rita, who 
smiled back, they made their way to the quiet 
corner. Scarcely had they taken their seats, 
and given their order to the waiter, when a loud 
crash rang through the room followed by a volley 
of oaths. “What is that?” Jean asked, leaping 
102 


An Unfinished Divorce. 


to his feet. Ninette looked up. “It is that 
scamp Paulovitch making trouble. See, they 
are picking up a champagne bottle. He must 
have thrown it at some one. He is always 
up to mischief, he and Arthur Hornier. You 
ought to have heard the way they insulted Rita 
and me this evening. On second thought, how- 
ever, I am glad that you had not yet arrived, 
there would have been a terrible scandal.” 

She raised her glass to her lips and smiled. 
“Sit down, Jean,” she continued. “It is not 
anything. He is always bothering the girls, or 
up to some devilment. He ought to be expelled 
from the Canton.” 

Seeing that it was indeed as she had said, and 
that two secret service men were dragging Paul- 
ovitch, securely handcuffed and cursing vigor- 
ously, Jean resumed his seat. “He certainly 
ought,” he assented, and with him all the other 
Nihilists. We have entirely too many of his 
kind in the country. But you will see instead 
of expelling him they will simply turn him loose 
in the street. Why, look! there is Arthur Bor- 
nier following him.” 

“Who resemble, assemble,” remarked the girl 
sententiously. When the excitement had sub- 
sided, and order had once more been restored, 
103 


An Unfinished Divorce. 

“did you have a pleasant voyage?” she queried. 

“Very. I have been shooting in Africa, as 
you may have heard. There is plenty of game, 
but the girls are hardly as pretty as those one 
finds here.” 

She smiled. “They are black and greasy, are 
they not?” 

“Yes; I cannot say that they are very attrac- 
tive, but then as you are aware hunger knows no 
law.” 

“I saw Madame des Ormes the other day, at 
the opera,” went on Ninette. She had a lot of 
people in her box. By the way, Arthur Bornier 
was one of them. She was looking very well 
and seemed extremely gay.” 

“Is the opera good this year?” he asked, by 
way of saying something. 

“Yes, it is excellent, and the tenor is quite 
remarkable. They sang Massenet’s ‘Manon’ and 
‘La Vie de Boheme’ really very well. Puccini’s 
‘Vie de Boheme’ I like so much better than 
Leoncavallo’s ‘Boheme,’ do not you?” 

“Indeed I do, but I must admit that I admire 
some of Leoncavallo’s works immensely. Take 
his ‘Paillasse,’ for instance,” qualifying his 
assent. 

“Yes, that is lovely,” she cried, enthusiasti- 
104 


An Unfinished Divorce. 


cally. Then, lowering her voice, “look over 
there,” she said, as she pointed to a young Rus- 
sian who was lounging near them. “That man 
is a friend of Bornier’s.” 

“Is he? Well, what of it?” 

“Nothing. Only you must be careful when 
any of that bounder’s chums are around. Ex- 
cuse me for speaking that way of your friend, 
but I really could not help it.” 

“Why do you dislike him?” asked Jean, “what 
has he done so very terrible?” 

“Do you not remember that he was Vera de 
Villefleurie’s friend? You surely must recall 
that they were together for several years.” 

“Of course I do. It was even rumored that 
they were to be married. She was a handsome 
girl when she made her first appearance here. 
Such beautiful eyes, such a sweet expression 
about the mouth.” 

“And she was as good as she was beautiful,” 
said Ninette earnestly. “She Reserved a better 
fate than to be tied up with Arthur, that low, 
drunken thief.” 

“That is pretty strong language, is it not, 
little girl? What did he do to her?” 

“Do you mean to say that you have never 
heard the story?” 


105 


An Unfinished Divorce. 


“I have heard something, but I never knew the 
exact truth. Tell it to me.” 

“Certainly. But there is the bell ringing for 
the next act. Do you want to go in and see it?” 

“I do not care about it, if you do not. I would 
much rather sit with you and listen to Vera’s 
history.” 

“I come here every evening so it makes no 
difference to me.” She took a sip of wine and 
began. “You remember what a good sort Vera 
was ; she never could do too much to make those 
around her happy. When any of us girls were 
in trouble she was always ready to help us. For 
several years before her affair with Arthur, she 
had lived with a very wealthy Russian, who gave 
her a great deal of jewelry. How often, when 
there were big balls here at the casino, she lent 
me her pearl necklace. Those were pearls — 
large and round and lustrous. I can tell you, 
your little Ninette was proud and looked swell 
when she had those around her slender throat.” 

She paused a moment, and took from her 
garter a miniature powder puff and applied it 
vigorously to her nose. “I always get excited,” 
she added, by way of explanation, “when I talk 
of Vera.” 

Stimulated by the wine and by his surround- 
106 


An Unfinished Divorce. 


ings, Jean reached for the girl’s hand and pressed 
it. “Continue Ninette,” he said, “I am sure you 
looked most sweet and made many conquests.” 

“No, nonsense!” she said, withdrawing her 
hand. He laughed. “Go on with your story, 
do you know where Vera came from?” 

“She only took the .name of Fleurville; she 
really was the daughter of Bartin, the cashier in 
Lacroix’s bank. You remember old Bartin and 
his sad ending?” 

“Was she his daughter? I did not know 
that. Yes, is was very sad about old Bartin 
and Lacroix, such a pious and methodistic in- 
dividual too, but as long as bankers insist on 
inadequately paying men through .whose hands 
thousands of francs pass every day, why they 
must expect to be robbed.” 

“Lacroix makes me sick, replied the girl. He 
is the head of the prohibition movement, yet 
Maurice tells me that he owns some of the best 
vineyards in the Canton of Yaud, and although 
he is a prime mover in the League for the Pro- 
motion of Social Purity one of his houses is 
rented to Madame Adelaide for immoral pur- 
poses. I am not much, but I cannot stand for 
hypocrisy.” 

“No more can I.” replied Jean. 

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An Unfinished Divorce. 


“So you think I am looking well this evening,” 
and she gave him a languishing glance. “How do 
you like my dress? I know it is not as hand- 
some as Rita’s, but Maurice is very generous 
with her. By the way, speaking of prohibition, 
I am awfully thirsty. Talking always makes me 
so.” 

“Excuse me,” said Jean, “I did not notice that 
your glass was empty.” He filled it as he spoke. 
“But let us hear some more about Vera. Par- 
don me for interrupting you,” he continued, as 
she opened her mouth to speak, “but what a 
mean character Lacroix was. You recollect that 
when some of Bartin’s friends pleaded with him 
not to prosecute the old man, he replied that 
though his heart bled for his brother in Christ, 
his duty to the community required him to be 
severe. So this was Vera’s father! I never 
realized it before. What a plucky woman 
Madame Bartin was ! It was wonderful the way 
she stood by her husband;” and Jean sighed. 

“A woman generally will when a man is in 
trouble and she is not in love with some one else,” 
replied Ninette. “But I must hurry on with my 
story; it is getting late. Vera, after much 
difficulty, secured a position as cashier in 
a restaurant, but she only received one hundred 
108 


An Unfinished Divorce. 


francs a month. She was the eldest, and all 
her family depended on her for their support. 
Naturally her salary did not suffice, so she took 
a lover. She was an awfully pretty girl and the 
lover was easier to find than the position as cash- 
ier. The one she chose was very kind to her, 
but used to keep her up very late at night, and 
in consequence she would be sleepy the next 
morning. She began to make mistakes in her 
accounts — Oh, she was honest, the best and most 
honest girl that there ever was — and she had to 
make good out of her own pocket. She soon saw 
that the two occupations were too much for her, 
the life was too strenuous and that she would 
have to choose. So she chose the more profitable 
one and gave up the restaurant. Come, it is 
time for me to be looking around a bit! I am 
not a millionaire.” 

“Do not worry about that, little girl; I will 
make it up to you. Here come Maurice and 
Rita,” replied Jean. 

“What are you two gossiping about?” Mau- 
rice asked, as he and his companion joined them 
at the table. 

“Ninette was telling me about Vera de Ville- 
fleurie.” 

“It was very sad about her, and Arthur Bor- 
109 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


nier acted most disgracefully, if I may be al- 
lowed to say so/’ said Maurice. 

“And how well you acted, ” said Ninette, ad- 
miringly. 

“That was nothing,” he replied. “A man 
could not have done less. It made me unhappy 
to think that she w T as suffering.” 

Ninette took up the thread of her story. 
“After her first lover left her, Vera as I told you, 
met a Russian, with whom for several years 
she lived happily. When he died, by some 
ill chance she fell in with Arthur. We women 
are fools when once we let our hearts guide us, 
because, I suppose, our hearts select such very 
queer roads. He became her amant de coeur, 
but as he had not the means, she was compelled 
to support herself. I can assure you it is pretty 
hard at first, when circumstances compel you 
to take up with anyone to earn an honest living. 
But you get used to it; I suppose you can get 
used to anything,” she added philosophically. 
“However that may be, Vera made this sacri- 
fice for Arthur, and though he was and is a 
gambler and a drunkard, she loved him and 
kept him supplied with money. He spent a good 
deal erf it on other women, and did not even take 
the trouble to hide it from her. How that poor 
110 


An Unfinished Divorce. 

girl suffered! We all told her that she was a 
fool, hut we could do nothing with her.” 

Here she paused to refresh herself, and Jean 
thought. “What a great thing a woman’s devo- 
tion is!” 

“Arthur commenced to play heavily,” she con- 
tinued, after sipping her champagne, “and Vera 
always paid his debts, so gradually her jewelry 
disappeared. Then she fell sick, and he began 
to neglect her most shamefully, but the sicker 
she became and the worse he treated her, ap- 
parently the more she loved him. It was sad 
to see her face light up when by any chance he 
said a kind word. When all her jewels were 
sold and she could no longer earn anything, she 
had grown to look so old and worn, he de- 
serted her altogether. She gave up her apart- 
ment, and went to live in a single room, picking 
up a few francs now and then by waiting around 
street corners.” Jean thought of the poor crea- 
ture he had seen that evening when driving 
home from the station, and shuddered. 

“This is not a very cheerful subject of con- 
versation,” broke in Maurice, beginning to grow 
restless. “Let us change it.” 

“That is just like you, Maurice, you never 
want any one to know about your kind acts,” 
said Rita. 


Ill 


An Unfinished Divorce. 


“It is not that, but it makes me blue to think 
of all the suffering there is in the world. And 
yet they tell us there is a loving God. If there 
is one who is responsible for it all, he is worse 
than Bornier — at least the latter gets some sat- 
isfaction out of his misdeeds, but what does such 
a God get out of his, except the mere pleasure of 
being evil?” 

“I will finish quickly, for they will soon be 
closing,” said Ninette. “Where were we? Oh, 
yes; Vera had spent everything. Meanwhile 
Arthur had inherited a comfortable fortune.” 

“Of which he has already gone through a great 
deal, if reports are true,” interrupted Maurice, 
“but go on, Ninette.” 

“Has he? Well, I am glad of it. In her 
poverty Vera appealed to him, but he refused to 
help her. Then she fell ill — her last illness. 
We girls did the best we could for her, but we 
are not rich. She used to send us to ask him, 
not to give her money, but simply to come and 
see her before she died. She never was very 
strong, and exposure and the life she led had 
brought on consumption. She knew that she 
had not long to live, and she wished to kiss him 
before death took her, but the brute only sent back 
insulting replies. Then Maurice heard about it.” 

“Now, now, none of that!” said the latter. 

112 


An Unfinished Divorce. 


“You keep quiet; I am going to tell Jean how 
nobly you behaved. Jean, he had her taken to 
a comfortable apartment and well cared for. She 
lingered for a few months before she died. Her 
last words (and I heard them) were, ‘Tell Arthur 
that I forgive him and love him, notwithstanding 
everything/ ” Ninette stopped, and wiped her 
eyes with a handkerchief. “Poor Vera,” she 
added, “we girls have a hard time of it. But see, 
they are closing; let us go to my place; we can 
have some supper.” 

“Oh, no,” said Rita, “let me play hostess this 
evening.” 

“Yes, come around to Rita’s,” joined in Mau- 
rice. “We will have a snack before turning in.” 

Jean had been much exasperated by his wife’s 
injustice and the unreasonableness of her con- 
duct. If on his arrival she had received him 
with open arms, the chances are that after a 
more or less prolonged interval he would have 
resumed his former manner of living, but her 
coldness had implanted in him a desire to re- 
form, which influenced him as long as there was 
some hope of a reconciliation. The sarcastic 
nature of her remarks, and the absolute impossi- 
bility of a renewal of their old ties, of which he 
was now convinced had caused another revolu- 
tion in his feelings. He was undecided what 

113 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


course to pursue. This uprooting of old associa- 
tions, and the uncertainty of a future in which 
conditions would be so different from those of 
the past, had aroused in him conflicting emotions 
which would lead him, he knew not whither. 

On the way to Rita’s apartment, seated 
opposite Ninette in the carriage, his knees touch- 
ing the girl's, the absolute futility of struggling 
was brought home to him. He was persuaded that 
no matter how sincere his repentance, how per- 
fect his reformation, his wife’s affection could 
never be regained. Even as he pressed his knee 
against Ninette’s, he was suffering keenly at his 
wife’s defection, and his heart was filled with an 
unappeasable longing to be with her. His habit 
of self analysis, however, made him wonder how 
much of this sorrow, unrest and heart-longing 
came from a desire for Berthe specifically, or 
from a general craving for feminine society. On 
the other hand, although restrained by no con- 
scientious scruples (he had left these behind him 
long ago), he experienced an unaccountable wish 
to be faithful to his wife, now that such fidelity 
would be absolutely unappreciated and serve no 
useful purpose. He leaned forward and patted 
Ninette’s hand. “Nice little girl,” he said, in 
a troubled voice. 

By this time the carriage had reached the door 
114 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


of the house, in which Maurice had rented and 
furnished an apartment for Rita. Within cer- 
tain limits he had given her carte blanche as to 
the furnishings, and the results were, as might 
have been expected, excessively fantastic. A 
narrow vestibule opened into the parlor, which 
was papered in three shades of red and blue. The 
furniture was pseudo Louis XIV, upholstered 
in green, red and gold damask, and against 
the wall stood a gilt piano — her joy and 
her pride. The curtains that hung before 
the windows were of deep red plush, trimmed 
with broad bands of green, also set off with gold. 
In a corner against a panel of yellow satin a 
small replica of the Venus de Milo occupied the 
summit of a pedestal at whose foot stood a large 
artificial palm. The walls were covered with a 
multitude of photographs, and on the mantel 
stood a clock crowned with an image of reclining 
Sappho. 

But the noticeable feature of the decorative 
scheme was the great quantity of scarfs, with 
which everything was draped. In all hues and 
colors, materials and forms, they covered the 
backs of chairs, and hung on the frames of pic- 
tures and mirrors. This being the first time 
that Jean had visited her domain, he was loud in 
his praises, and congratulated her on her exquis- 
115 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


ite taste. “It is rather pretty / 7 she replied, re- 
arranging the scarf which hung from the corner 
of the piano, and trying to appear indifferent. 
“Come, let us go into the dining room and have 
something to eat and drink . 77 

She led the way. There was nothing extrava- 
gant in the arrangement of the room. On the 
walls, papered in dark brown, hung six pictures 
of still life which to her were the height of artis- 
tic excellence. The furniture of black walnut, 
in the style of Henry II, was handsomely carved 
but chaste and appropriate. The bourgeois sim- 
plicity and sombreness of this furnishing ap- 
pealed to her as being in delightful contrast to 
the brilliant magnificence of her parlor. Be- 
fore the windows fell heavy blue curtains whose 
thick folds produced such darkness that, even at 
noon, she was forced to eat by artificial light. 

It is curious that this tendency to darken the 
places reserved for eating is so persistent. Pre- 
sumably it originated with the cave men — our 
ancestors, who, in order to be secure from the 
ever watchful foe, carried into the inmost re- 
cesses of their rocky abodes the prey which they 
had procured with so much effort, there to be de- 
voured in safety. 

A reaction from the shock occasioned by his 
wife’s reception had already set in and during 
116 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


the supper, the champagne aiding, Jean’s atten- 
tions to Ninette increased in warmth and 
demonstrativeness. At first he contented him- 
self with gently pressing her foot under the 
table, and he felt an actual thrill when this pres- 
sure was returned, as if he had at last received 
a token of affection from a haughty dame whom 
he had long been pursuing. But soon tiring of 
this, and growing bolder, he passed his arm 
around her waist and drew her on his knees. He 
kissed her and they drank from the same glass. 
The odor from her warm young body oppressed 
him, and the soft white neck so close to his lips 
invited his caresses. The other couple were af- 
fected by their actions ; the conversation became 
constrained and finally ceased. Jean pulled 
himself together. “It is getting late,” he said. 
“I must be going home. Here, Ninette, is a little 
present for you,” and he handed her a hundred 
franc note. 

“Thank you,” she said in a disappointed voice, 
“but I thought” — 

“So did I for a moment,” he answered; “but 
then I thought again. To-night I must behave 
myself. So good-bye. Much obliged, Rita, for 
your hospitality.” 


117 


VI. 


It may be stated without fear of contradiction 
that a certain similarity and mutual comprehen- 
sion link together the upper classes of all coun- 
tries and that it is in the lower ranks of life that 
the gpreat diversities of custom and modes of ex- 
istence appear. The cultivated Turk resembles 
in habit and dress the American of approxi- 
mately the same social position, and one can dis- 
cover but little difference between the ordinary 
conduct and manner of being of the Russian 
noble and those of the English gentleman. But 
between the Turkish and American laborer, be- 
tween the moujik and the Yorkshire peasant, 
what a world of difference in thought, prejudice, 
dress and manners! 

Constant travel and intercourse have created 
the bond that unites the more refined of all na- 
tions on the one hand, and immobility and ignor- 
ance on the other have fostered the race hatred 
and the peculiarities that flourish so vigorously 
amid the masses. In view of these facts it is 
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An Unfinished Divorce . 


not surprising that in large centres the more 
educated foreigners are scattered generally 
throughout the indigenous population, whereas 
the lower orders are segregated according to 
their several nationalities into communities gov- 
erned in a great measure by the practices of their 
native lands. 

Geneva forms no exception to this rule. Many 
are the foreigners of distinction that lend charm 
and variety to the social gatherings of the aris- 
tocracy and various are the colonies that, cling- 
ing to their own modes of life, thrive within its 
hospitable borders. 

Prominent amongst these settlements is that 
of the Russians, most of whom have fixed their 
abodes in the neighborhood surrounding the 
Boulevard du Pont d’Arvre. In such numbers 
have they congregated that they have changed 
the physiognomy of this quarter, which in its 
inhabitants, now resembles rather a Russian 
town than a Swiss city. 

Many are the reasons which have influenced 
them in their choice of the city of Geneva as a 
place of refuge. The principal of these is that 
hospitality for which Switzerland is noted, since 
of these expatriates a large proportion are poli- 
tical refugees. The Confederation does not dis- 
119 ' 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


criminate but receives on equal terms, the 
knight of the bomb and dagger, and the patriot, 
misguided perhaps, whose unselfish motives in- 
spire sympathy. To place under proper surveil- 
lance and to unearth the plots of these oft-times 
dangerous exiles the imperial government here 
maintains a numerous and well organized sec- 
ret police. 

It must not by any means be supposed how- 
ever, that this colony is composed exclusively 
of criminals and malcontents. On the contrary 
there are included in its members many loyal 
and peaceable subjects of the Czar, attracted 
thither by the university and the other opportu- 
nities for study and self-improvement that Gen- 
eva bestows with so lavish a hand. Especially 
is the medical faculty thronged with men and 
women students, who, their course completed, 
will return to their sordid villages hidden in the 
heart of the vast empire, there to tend and in- 
struct in the principles of hygiene their ignorant 
countrymen. The good that they do cannot be 
overestimated and Russia may well forgive 
Switzerland the harboring of her anarchists in 
consideration of the instruction she has so freely 
offered to many of her sons and daughters. 

Students and nihilists, they are all crowded 
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An Unfinished Divorce . 


into the great buildings that have sprung up like 
mushrooms to accommodate the rapidly increas- 
ing population. Vast barrack-like constructions, 
having no pretentions to architectural beauty, 
they offend the aesthetic taste of those who pass, 
by the vulgarity of their pink, blue or yellow fa- 
cades, and by their freizes decorated with im- 
mense sunflowers or lillies. 

Nicholas Paulovitch, whose disorderly conduct 
and whose friendship for Bornier had been com- 
mented on by Ninette, was a Nihilist. Of super- 
ior intelligence and education he had made a 
specialty of the study of high explosives and no 
one better than he knew how to prepare a bomb, 
suitable either for murder in the street or for the 
destruction of property. Implicated in the blow- 
ing up of the palace of one of the grand dukes, 
he had managed to escape and take refuge in 
Geneva, where at the casino he had become ac- 
quainted with Arthur. But to go back to our 
story. 

Bornier, as observed by Ninette, had fol- 
lowed Paulovitch and his captors out to the 
sidewalk. “Dimitri,” he called to a young man 
standing in the crowd, “come close. I want you 
to do something for me. Do not worry about 
Paulovitch, I will look after him. You know 
121 


An Unfinished Divorce. 


Jean des Ormes and Ninette?” 

“Yes,” replied the Russian, who at his sum- 
mons had come to his side, “I know them very 
well.” 

“Take this,” and Arthur handed him a ten 
franc piece. “Go inside, they are probably still 
sitting near the bar. Do not lose sight of them 
for a moment, follow them wherever they go, 
but be as discreet as possible. You understand?” 

“Perfectly,” said Dimitri smiling. “I will not 
lose the trail until I see Monsieur des Ormes 
safe in his own home.” 

“That is right. Now be off quick.” 

When the lad had disappeared through the 
door, Arthur turned his attention to Paulovitch 
who was still struggling with his captors. “What 
are you going to do with him?” he asked. 

“Lock him up until he is sober. What do you 
suppose?” replied one of the plain clothes men. 

“What is the use of going to all that trouble? 
Give him to me, I promise to take him home.” 

“No. This time in he goes. Very sorry not 
to be able to oblige you. He needs a lesson.” 

“His head to-morrow will be lesson enough,” 
insisted Arthur laughing. 

After demurring a while, the men consented 
to the release of their prisoner, and the drunken 
122 


An Unfinished Divorce. 


Russian whom the cold air was rapidly subduing, 
was bundled into a cab and accompanied by 
Arthur \yas driven off. 

When the carriage drew up in front of the tall 
bright colored apartment house, on the top floor 
of which was his home, Paulovitch had lapsed 
into a state of unconsciousness. After much 
difficulty, his companion and the coachman 
succeeded in carrying him up the five flights of 
stairs and propping him against the door post. 

“That is a climb and your friend is no light 
weight,” panted the coachman as they halted in 
the hallway under the skylight. 

“You are right and here is something for your 
trouble,” said Arthur, who having rung the bell, 
waited to be admitted. 

“Good evening, Masoushka,” he said to the 
girl who cautiously opened the door. Her face 
lit up when she recognized who it was that spoke, 
but immediately clouded over when her eyes 
through the gloom distinguished the form of 
Nicholas Paulovitch. 

“Good evening, Arthur, where did you find 
him?” she asked. 

“I will tell you when we have put him to bed.” 

When Nicholas was safely stowed away and 
the coachman had left, Arthur and Masoushka 
123 


An Unfinished Divorce. 


seated themselves on the lounge in the little par- 
lor which heavy curtains separated from the 
bedroom. He put his arm around her waist 
and drawing her to him, their lips met in a long 
kiss. 

This Masoushka was united to Nicholas Paulo- 
vitch by one of those free love arrangements so 
frequently entered into by Nihilists. It was 
said of her that when extremely young she to- 
gether with her brother had been implicated in 
a conspiracy to assassinate the governor of her 
province. The brother had been caught and 
sentenced to Siberia for life and she had escaped 
only by the merest chance. This, however, was 
no more than hearsay and the truth concerning 
her antecedents was unknown. According to 
some, she was of noble birth, whereas others 
maintained that she was no more than the 
daughter of a small shopkeeper. 

Whatever diversity of opinion might exist as 
to her history there could be none as to her pecu- 
liar charm. It would, however, be difficult to 
say in what this charm consisted. Small of 
stature she was nevertheless exquisitely formed 
and her freedom from the restraint of corsets 
and the absence of petticoats under her short 
skirts, a style of dress affected by the Russian 
124 


An Unfinished Divorce. 

Nihilists, served to accentuate her grace. 

But this alone was not enough to account for 
her fascination. Nor could it be attributed to 
her beauty, since her face lacked most of the 
qualities the possession of which this word im- 
plies. Her short, curly brown hair was combed 
back from her low forehead under which gleamed 
dark eyes surmounted by black brows which met 
over the short and slightly upturned nose. Her 
mouth was large with full red lips disclosing 
when she smiled a set of superb teeth. 

No, it was in her expression that lay her 
weird attraction, at least so Arthur thought as 
when releasing herself, she timidly glanced up at 
him. In her eyes he could read the sadness and 
the longings of an oppressed people, and in her 
smile, that hopeless misery, so hopeless that in 
its intensity it becomes a bitter joy. 

By that smile was touched the same chord of 
mystical sorrow that is set vibrating by the Rus- 
sian folk-songs, which, recalling the clank of the 
chain* and the crack of the whip, are ennobled by 
the ardent faith they express in the destiny of 
the great white empire. The self-effacement, the 
absolute sacrifice of self, the gentle pride that 
lie in perfect humility; all this and more, could 
a seeing eye read in her young face. 

125 


An Unfinished Divorce. 


As lie looked down on her head resting’ on his 
shoulder everything that was good in Arthur 
was aroused. “My Masoushka, my poor Mas- 
oushka,” he said, slipping to his knees. 

“Get up, Arthur mine, sit by me and let us 
talk. Where did you find Nicholas?” 

“What is the use of talking of that brute?” 
he replied, as a drunken snore came from behind 
the curtain. “But if you must know, he was ar- 
rested for creating a disturbance at the casino. 
I begged him off and brought him home.” 

“How good you are to do this,” she said ear- 
nestly. 

“Good! Not at all. I brought him home be- 
cause I wanted to see you. Why do you not give 
him up — I will care for you?” 

“And my duty to Russia, to my poor people, 
what about them?” 

“But surely you owe something to yourself?” 

“How can I better pay this debt than by being 
true to my higher self?” 

“But think of me, consider our love. Does not 
this tie establish a duty?” 

“We will see,” replied the girl, “but my duty 
to Russia must take precedence over every- 
thing.” 

Again he drew her lithe young form to his 
126 


An Unfinished Divorce . 

breast. “Love is greater than all else,” he whis- 
pered as he showered passionate kisses on her 
yielding lips. “He is king, believe me, Masou- 
shka.” 

She resisted. “Spare me Arthur, do not make 
me hate myself?” 

“Hate yourself because you would no longer 
sacrifice the real duty which you owe your love, 
to a quixotic sense of what you owe to a brute 
and to a mystical conception? No, if you per- 
sist in your mad intention it will rather be for 
what you have not done, that some day you will 
hate yourself, than for what you have done.” 

“But remember, dearest, up to now I have 
known no other passion than love of country. I 
did not love Nicholas. I felt that he was strug- 
gling for freedom and for right. I admired him 
for what seemed to me his bravery, and I gave 
myself to him from a sense of comradeship and 
from a feeling of the duty incumbent on me of 
encouraging by all means in my power, the work- 
ers for the cause.” 

“Now, sweetheart, you have learnt what love 
is. I love you. God, how I love you. You 
gave yourself for love of country, now give your- 
self for love of love.” 

He clasped her close to him, he rained his fiery 
127 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


kisses on her hair, on her eyes, and with uncer- 
tain hands he stroked the swelling linen of her 
bodice. She struggled, but he held her fast. He 
kissed her ears and glued his lips to hers. Then 
the forces of her passionate nature, which up to 
now had found expression in a mistaken and 
barren love of country, burst forth in all their 
fury. In a tumultuous flood they swept over 
her, brushing every barrier aside like driftwood. 

Her eyes closed, and with fury she replied 
to his violent caresses, raining delirious kisses 
on his lips. She grasped him in her strong 
young arms and her convulsive effort made him 
pant for breath. At last exhausted, she released 
him and lay back expressionless in his embrace. 
With one soft hand she caressed his knee, and the 
fingers of the other she passed gently through 
his hair. 

As thus motionless she rested, her bosom ris- 
ing and falling with her short and rapid breath- 
ing, her eyes opened and gazed into his. She 
sighed. Once more her lids dropped and again 
he felt her firm embrace as she sought his lips 
with hers. “You are cruel,” she murmured, 
“leave me,” but ever her arms pressed him closer 
to her heart. 


128 


VII. 


The stars were shining brightly, for the wea- 
ther had cleared during the night, when Jean 
opening the front door, quietly made his way to 
his room, and hastily undressing sought his bed. 

At ten o’clock, the next morning he was 
awakened by a gentle knocking. “Come in,” he 
called sleepily, and the next instant, with a rush, 
his children projected themselves on his bed 
smothering him in kisses. 

“Oh, Father, Father,” they cried, “we are so 
glad to have you back again. You are going to 
stay with us are you not?” 

“I cannot tell you, children.” 

The boy Aime, his face darkened by the sadness 
which comes so quickly to children, but which 
as quickly passes away, let himself slip off the 
bed onto the floor, and crossing his rough, bare 
legs, looked up at his father. “Father you will 
stay a little while with Aime, will you not?” 

“No, baby, I am afraid that I cannot,” he re- 
plied sadly, as he thought what it would mean to 
129 


r An Unfinished Divorce . 


him to be robbed of his children. Of the little 
one above all, who would grow up with 
scarcely a recollection of his father, for babies 
forget so soon, or would be taught to dislike him. 

“Oh, a little while Father,” Airne pleaded as 
tears came into his upturned blue eyes. 

“Father, why must you go?” asked Marthe, 
“you ought not to be always leaving us. Do 
you not love us and Mother any more and what 
makes Mother so sad? She does not seem to 
care to have us around. She is always sending 
us away.” 

“Of course, I love you, children, and you may 
be sure that your mother does, but I cannot ex- 
plain this to you now. Some day you will know. 
Run along now,” he added, as the butler 
brought in his coffee, “this is Sunday, and it 
is time for you to be going to church. I am 
going later, for I wish to have a talk with Mon- 
sieur le Cure.” 

“Telephone the riding-school,” he added, turn- 
ing to the butler, “to send my horse around after 
lunch. I am going to ride over to Saint Leger.” 

It seemed curious to him to be in his own 
house, and to be directing things as if his stay 
were to be permanent. A few weeks later, he 
130 


An Unfinished Divorce. 


well knew, he would give anything for his chil- 
dren’s society, and now he was sending them 
away. But life must go on and even a man con- 
demned to die, spends the greater part of his 
last few minutes dressing himself. 

When his toilet was completed he entered the 
library where he found Berthe already seated in 
her armchair. Her back was turned to the win- 
dow and the light which filtered through the 
lace curtains was subdued by the heavy dra- 
peries. She was well aware that thus seated, a 
woman no longer in her first youth, appears to 
the best advantage, and with feminine cruelty 
she hoped, by increasing her value from a phy- 
sical standpoint, to render harder the blow she 
had decided to deliver. 

She had dressed herself for the occasion in a 
cerise colored morning gown, trimmed with gray 
green velvet, and made of a soft clinging mater- 
ial. Although the effect was loose, the gown was 
skillfully cut, so as to show her youthful figure 
to the best advantage. She had placed herself 
slightly sideways in the chair, thus tightening 
her dress and showing in its purity the lines of 
her graceful form. 

At the sound of his step, she glanced up from 
131 


An Unfinished Divorce. 


her embroidery, but said nothing more than, 
“Good morning, Jean, I hope that you slept 
well.” 

“Very well, I thank you and I hope you did 
the same,” he replied, as he seated himself oppo- 
site to her and lighting a cigarette appeared 
to be wrapt in thought. 

The silence had become irksome, when laying 
her work on her knees, she said, “I think, Jean, 
that we have had enough of this.” 

“I think so, too. By the way did your occult 
friend with the long hair stay very late? You 
look rather tired and used up.” 

“No, he did not. And I do not see how my 
looks concern you. But this is quite aside from 
the question. As I said before, I am tired of 
this, and I have decided to ask for my divorce.” 

“This seems to me rather an extreme measure 
to take under the circumstances,” he replied. 
“There are the children to be considered. What 
will they think of it, what will Marthe say to 
such a measure? You know she has been brought 
up to think divorce an invention of the evil 
one.” 

“She would have to get used to it,” and a vic- 
ious look came into her face. “I certainly can- 
not let my life be ruined by what a child might 
132 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


say or think.” 

“Even if she is your own child, and that 
rightly or wrongly, your action will upset' all her 
notions of morality?” 

“I cannot help it. After all it will be your 
fault. You ought to have thought of the prob- 
able consequences of your sin.” 

“I do not think that such a line of reasoning 
would exculpate you before God. Nor that be- 
cause it may be possible to excuse or palliate 
your act, that it would in any way change the 
deplorable results on your — or rather our — 
daughter, which after all should be the issue 
with a true mother. If you can serve as a screen 
between your children and the results of my sins, 
as you term them, is it not your duty to do so?” 

“I have made up my mind so there is no use 
of discussing it any more. I want you to-mor- 
row afternoon to explain the matter to Maitre 
Rapagon and engage him as my lawyer.” 

“But I thought of engaging him for myself. 
He has always been my counsel.” 

“I think that very mean of you, you always 
were selfish.” 

“Berthe, I think that you must be crazy. You 
have been going out a great deal. In my ab- 
sence you have been surrounded by a lot of 
133 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


flatterers who have turned your head.” 

“I see that you are as polite as ever. Oh!” she 
continued after a moment’s pause, “I had quite 
forgotten; Juliette de Tourville has asked us to 
dinner this evening. She learned last night that 
you had returned. Afterwards we are to take 
supper at the Restaurant des Quais with the 
Rondins. Shall we accept?” 

“Why not? By the way, I saw Monsieur de 
Muriel at the club last night. I am going to 
ride out to see them this afternoon.” 

“Are you?” she replied as she went to the tele- 
phone and called up Madame de Tourville. “Is 
this you, Juliette? I am Berthe — Berthe des 
Ormes. Jean and I will come with pleasure. 
Yes, he is very well. I will tell him. Good-bye 
until this evening at eight o’clock.” She rang 
off and resumed her embroidery. 

“Juliette sends you her best regards and hopes 
that you enjoyed yourself. But, Jean, I think 
it very unkind of you to refuse to help me. You 
have tormented me enough. Do as I wish, and I 
will tell everyone how nice you were and how 
you tried to make up for the past by facilitating 
matters for me.” 

“Berthe, I do not know what has gotten into 
you. Again I say you must be crazy.” 

134 


An Unfinished Divorce . 

“Nothing has gotten into me- but I wish to 
have done with it all. You have tormented me 
enough. I wish to be free. Your very presence 
here is an insult.” 

“You certainly are not complimentary. If mv 
presence is disagreeable to you, I will leave and 
not return until you send for me.” 

“Leave me? I know your tricks. You want 
to keep me here to torture me. You will run all 
over the world and return now and then to in- 
spect your victim. You want to keep me tied 
so as to misuse me. No, I will not have it. I 
will not have it!” 

“Now, Berthe, calm yourself, if you prefer I 
will stay in Geneva.” 

“Yes, stay here to abuse me, to maltreat me. 
Since we have been married you have never done 
but one nice thing for me.” 

“May I ask what that one nice thing was?” 

“When,” replied Berthe, a tear in her voice, 
“you brought me that little puppy dog, and he is 
dead now.” 

“Do not talk nonsense, my dear.” 

“I suppose that legally I am ‘your dear,’ but I 
assure you that I am not otherwise.” 

“Well probably it will not be for long,” he 
said, losing his temper. 

135 


An Unfinished Divorce . 

“Oh, to be free,” she exclaimed. “When I 
look back at all these years of neglect, my youth 
g one — an( i you never loved me, you know you 
never did, you would have acted very differently 
if you had. And now you want to keep me tied 
to you so as to torture me at your leisure.” 

The sound of a child’s steps was heard and 
Aime came into the room. He stood between 
his parents undecided what to do, for even baby 
as he was he saw that something was wrong. 
Then noticing the frown on his mother’s brow, 
he trotted over to her side and patted her cheek 
with his dimpled hand. “Mother is scolding,” 
he said, “be nice, mother, be nice.” 

With the obstinancy characteristic of such 
natures, she pushed away the curly head which 
had buried itself in her lap. She advanced her 
chin and her expression became hard and relent- 
less. Sobbing bitterly and throwing a pitiful 
look at his father, the child left the room. He 
had thus learned from her who had brought him 
into the world how harsh and unforgiving this 
same world could be. 

“How could you, how could you, Berthe!” cried 
Jean. “Have you a mother’s heart, are you even 
a woman, that you can act this way? Call him 
back. I have wronged you, I know, but forgive 
136 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


me. Call him back. Let us seal our reconcilia- 
tion, by together wiping away his tears/’ 

He besought her in vain. It seemed as if no 
pleading could soften that heart. It must be 
admitted that he had had his part in hardening 
it, but nothing that he could have done would 
have rendered it insensible to her baby’s tears. 
To accomplish this, more had been required than 
his neglect and infidelity; a finishing process 
which, even had he so desired, he could not have 
completed. 

Another influence had entered into her life, 
a sentiment which had nothing in common with 
family affection, but was rather its antithesis. 
This had perfected the work her husband had 
begun, neither alone could have accomplished it. 

“For God’s sake, stop tormenting me,” she 
cried, “you are not a gentleman, you will not 
play the game. Let me go. I do not love you. 
I forgive you, but I hate you. After all these 
years of neglect you will not even try to make 
up for it by giving me my freedom.” 

“But, Berthe, I love you, I want to keep my 
family together. Remember the prodigal son, 
did not his father forgive him?” 

“Yes, but unfortunately I am not your father. 
Oh, I have had enough of it,” she cried passion- 
137 


An Unfinished Divorce. 


ately, “enough of it I tell you. All the horrible 
things you have done to me since our marriage. 
I cannot bear it, I cannot bear it. You must 
give me my freedom.” 

“Berthe, can you not see, do you not see that 
you are asking too much? The sacrifice is 
too great. You ask me to voluntarily give up 
my wife, my children, my home. You have lost 
your senses. Moreover you wish me to provide 
you with the weapons with which you design to 
accomplish my destruction. It cannot be, you 
cannot mean it. On my knees I beg of you to 
give up this horrible idea.” 

“I cannot give it up. I have forgiven you so 
many times. You have exhausted my patience. 
I am worn out.” 

“How oft shall my brother offend against me 
and I forgive him? Until seven times? What 
did our Lord answer?” 

“But you do not really want to be forgiven. 
It is only your pride that suffers, not your heart. 
I am sure that you have been through similar 
scenes not once, but often, with your different 
mistresses.” 

“Berthe, you are out of your head.” 

“No I am not. When Juliette de Tourville 
gave you your conge what did you say? I am 
138 


An Unfinished Divorce. 

pursuaded that you were quite as dramatic.” 

“ J uliette de Tourville with whom we are din- 
ing to-night? Juliette, my mistress! Berthe 
you ought to be ashamed of yourself.” 

“Yes, Juliette de Tourville. Of course, she 
was your mistress. It is common talk. Ah, I 
have touched you there.” 

“Although I deny absolutely your scandalous 
remark, I cannot help but think it curious that 
you should dine with her, and accept her hospi- 
tality if you believe this piece of malicious gos- 
sip.” 

“I do not believe. I know. I know the num- 
ber and the street of the apartment where you 
used to meet. But what of it? She is only one 
amongst many. I really cannot turn myself in- 
to a recluse?” 

“Berthe this is quite untrue, as you yourself 
well know, and is quite beside the question.” 

“Although I do not consider it beside the ques- 
tion, still for a moment I will drop it. But you 
never loved me. You once even went so far as 
to admit this to me.” 

“You call yourself a Christian, or you used to. 
Did not Peter deny his Master not once but three 
times, and did He not forgive him, and make of 
him the solid rock on which he built His church?” 

139 


An Unfinished Divorce. 


Berthe began to sob. Jean threw himself on 
his knees and buried his face in her lap, as their 
baby boy had done. “Poor Jean,” she moaned, 
“you do feel badly and I cannot help you. You 
are so sad.' We are both in such deep distress, 
and we cannot comfort one another as we always 
used to. I need comforting too, believe me Jean, 
I pity you and I pity myself. Poor boy,” and 
she passed her hand through his hair. 

There is no woman who is not flattered at see- 
ing a man at her feet, even if she feels that she 
has been wronged, even if the suppliant has be- 
trayed her most sacred trust. She cannot but 
be moved at his distress, and even though she 
has no intention of forgiving or of yielding to 
his prayer, yet is she always influenced by a 
longing to protect, by a desire to comfort. In 
one word the maternal instinct is awakened. 

Berthe was not of stone and when she saw his 
deep trouble all the better nature in her strug- 
gled for mastery. But the struggle was a brief 
one and the revulsion soon came. “Leave me,” 
she cried, putting him from her with all her 
strength. “It is not right, do not touch me,” 
and a shudder ran through her frame. 

He arose from his knees and the look of sor- 
row was replaced by one of anger. “Berthe,” 
140 


An Unfinished Divorce, 


he cried furiously, “you are in love with someone 
else, is it Arthur Bornier, that disreputable 
drunkard? Tell me, I demand an answer. 
Everyone in town is talking about you two, even 
the cocottes at the casino.” 

“You are in the highest sense of the word a 
gentleman, are you not?” she said contemptu- 
ously. “So you have been discussing your wife, 
the mother of your children, with common pros- 
titutes have you? Get away, you make me de- 
spise you.” 

“You know that what you say is not true. 
Someone at the casino mentioned casually that 
you had been seen at the theatre with that man. 
I, of course, immediately changed the subject. 
I do not doubt that you have discussed me with 
that protege of the demi-monde, but do not 
imagine that I discuss you with those who fur- 
nish him with funds.” 

“You need not try to explain,” she said 
witheringly, “nor attempt to defend yourself by 
slandering others.” 

“You have not answered me yet. Do you love 
this Bornier?” 

“Do not insult me,” she cried wildly, “and if 
I do I am free. I have been free to love whom I 
pleased ever since you left me. You are nothing 
141 


An Unfinished Divorce . 

to me, leave me. I hate you, you make me shud- 
der.” 

“Madame, you had better be careful, you 
know that in such matters I do not trifle,” he 
said sternly. “But I will not believe it, my 
Berthe loving someone else. It cannot be so. It 
cannot be so. Tell me that it is not true.” 

“I will not answer you. I will not, 1 am free. 
You have no longer any rights. Leave me I 
am worn out, weary, oh, so weary of it all. I 
want peace. I need peace and tranquility.” 

“If you will not answer me I shall know that 
my suspicions are right and will take such 
measures as may be necessary.” 

“What measures,” she asked anxiously. 
“What measures will you take?” 

“I was sure of it, the fact that you do love 
that cad. You remember how often I have said, 
and you have agreed with me, that a woman 
never wishes a divorce unless she is in love with 
another man.” 

“We were mistaken. It is not so, but even if 
it were I am free to love wherever I please.” 

“In the eyes of the law and of God you are still 
my wife and you are an adulteress at heart. 
‘Whosoever looketh on a woman with unclean 
eyes and lusteth after her hath committed adul- 
142 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


tery with her already in his heart.’ If this is 
true of a man, how much more true is it of a 
woman.” 

“You are not chic,” she answered him, “you 
are not playing the game. I think that after all 
these years of misery you might try to atone by 
joining with me in asking for the divorce. It 
would make it so much easier.” 

“But why should I do this? Why should I 
work towards my own destruction? Our ties 
are nothing, then? You yourself said that they 
were too sacred to be easily broken. You are 
not asking to sever bonds but a few months old 
nor a companionship founded only on love. 
Love as you have seen passes as quickly as it 
comes. It was not intended by nature that it 
should endure. But you are about to destroy 
the only thing of any value in this world: a 
home, a union of many years standing, based 
on mutual comprehension and strengthened by 
common interests. Are the joys we have shared 
nothing? Are the sorrows we have passed 
through hand in hand, nothing? Do you not 
know that nothing so thoroughly molds two 
beings into one as the sorrows which they have 
suffered together? Is all this nothing?” 

“Nothing! nothing! You never loved me 
143 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


You were always restless when I kissed you. 
You never responded to one of my caresses un- 
less it was with an ulterior motive. Selfish, 
horrible, loathsome object that you are.” 

“Admitting all this to be true, is there no 
such thing as forgiveness?” 

“Not in your case. Yes, I do forgive you, I 
wish you no evil. Go away, leave me alone — 
that is all I desire. I hope that you will pros- 
per. T do forgive you as I hope to be forgiven.” 

“Berthe, do not blaspheme.” 

“If you will not help me,” she went on disre- 
garding his last remark, “I will get the divorce 
anyway. Oh, I have grounds enough. If you 
contest it, what a scandal it will make. The 
disgrace that will fall on our innocent children’s 
heads.” 

“You would not do that, I am sure.” 

“I will do anything to be free from you. To 
feel this terrible burden lifted from my should- 
ers, to feel myself clean and free.” 

“And what would you do with your freedom? 
If you wish I will consent to a separation, will 
not that be enough?” 

“What I will do with my freedom is no con- 
cern of yours and a separation will not be suf- 
ficient. You left me alone. You did not think of 
144 


An Unfinished Divorce. 

my reputation. What did you care? I could al- 
most believe that you tried to force me to be bad 
so that you could feel freer to go your own 
way.” 

“It seems to me that a woman of your age 
might be trusted to live alone for a few months 
without compromising herself.” 

“There you are again insulting me. After all 
these years of misery. I can bear it no more. 
I will be free. But tell me Jean, where did you 
go last night?” 

“I went to the club and afterwards to the 
casino with Maurice. I did not find your long- 
haired fakir very entertaining.” 

“Always the same thing — neglect. I have 
sat up night after night listening for the sound 
of your footsteps.” 

“Berthe, once more I ask your forgiveness;” 
he arose from his chair as he spoke. “Pardon 
me if I have been violent. It is only because I 
love you and feel so very badly. If I did not 
would I care? Forgive me for our children’s 
sake. Let us begin life again. We are still 
young enough to do so. I swear that you will 
never regret it. Come Berthe.” 

But the better feelings by which for one 
moment she had seemed to be influenced had 
145 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


been swept away. She scarcely heard him. He 
was speaking to deaf ears and to a closed heart. 

“Do not torment me any more,” she answered 
in a weary voice. “If yon do not help me I will 
get the divorce anyway. It will make a horrible 
scandal, that will be the only result and I do 
not see the use of it; however, you know your 
own affairs* best.” 

He tried one more appeal. Once more he 
essayed to awaken that sleeping conscience, to 
appeal to the religious feelings that he knew 
must be lying dormant and not dead within her. 
Worldliness, vanity, occultism and a new pas- 
sion had conspired to crush her higher nature, 
but he hoped to find something there which he 
could awaken from its sleep. 

“Berthe, look at the Man of Sorrows,” and he 
pointed to a silver crucifix hanging on the w T all. 
“He suffered for and through us as you have 
suffered for and through me. Yet He forgave. 
Did not your religion teach you that divorce 
was wrong, that it was absolutely opposed to 
God’s law? Has it no more influence over you? 

“What is this religion of which you speak?” 
she cried. “We women have long enough been 
bound by its chains. How many men believe? 
The churches are filled with women and women 
146 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


only. ‘Religion is a good thing’ you say, ‘for 
our wives. It keeps them in the path in which 
they should walk. The lower classes it renders 
submissive,’ and so you encourage the church. 
Religion forbids us, does it, to free ourselves 
from the man who introduces impurity into his 
home? — When every fibre of our finer nature is 
hourly outraged by a man’s grossness we are not 
to rebel? No — divorce is our weapon. By it we 
will force you men to reach a higher plane. The 
priests have bound us too long already. But 
enough ! — enough ! Look at my hair. It is turn- 
ing white,” — she raised her hand to her head. 
“I have you to thank for it. Think how often 
you have insulted me.” 

“In what way?” 

“Oh, often. You have not even taken the 
trouble to hide your love affairs from me. When 
I asked you, you should not have confessed. 
You should have lied about them. They would 
have been good lies.” 

“You know that I detest untruth,” he said. 

“Yet you have often lied to me and deceived 
me too.” 

“Sometimes one is forced to lie. You would 
not have me betray sacred confidences, nor an- 
nounce to you when I go out ‘Madame, if I am 
147 


An Unfinished Divorce. 


late for dinner this evening do not worry nor 
wait for me. I intend to deceive you this after- 
noon with Madame Q., and may be delayed 
longer than I expect — one can never tell.’ You 
would not ask this, would you?” 

“I do not know and I do not care. To-mor- 
row I want you to see Maitre Rapagon and re- 
tain him for me.” 

“And if I refuse? If I refuse to have any- 
thing to do with the matter?” 

She leaned towards him and in an intense 
voice replied. “Then I shall cite Juliette de 
Tourville as co-respondent.” 

“You would not be capable of such an act,” 
he cried. 

“I will do anything as I said before to be free 
from you. So take your choice. Agree. Put 
in a cross suit, say what you please about me — 
the laws are lax — say that I am extravagant — 
anything you wish — or,” and here she paused, 
“I swear to you that Juliette de Tourville shall 
be cited as co-respondent.” 

“This is nonsense.” 

“Is it? I have proofs of what I advance.” 

He bowed. “Madame I do not believe that 
there will be any necessity for you to produce 
your so-called proofs. But excuse me, it is late, 
148 


An Unfinished Divorce. 

and with jour permission I will go to Mass.” 

He left the room and taking up his hat and 
cane in the hall passed out into the street. As 
he turned the corner he met Maurice. “Why, 
Jean,” said the latter, “you look very much up- 
set. What is the matter?” 

“I have just had an explanation with Berthe. 
She has her mind fixed on a divorce. She has 
even threatened, and I trust you will keep 
silence, to cite a lady we both know as co-re- 
spondent. Her behavior has made me more pur- 
suaded than ever that there is someone else.” 

“You may be right,” replied his friend. “I do 
not say that you are not. But do not lose your 
head. A man who believes himself in love 
thinks the whole world his rival. He cannot 
realize (I am not alluding in any way to 
Berthe) that the object of his affections is but a 
woman, who probably has hunted after twenty 
others before catching him, and that all the 
other twenty rush to cover when the fair one 
approaches. As I said there is nothing per- 
sonal, but a man in your situation always ex- 
aggerates.” 

“I understand you, but I must hurry. I am 
late as it is for church. Drop in to lunch if you 
care to.” 


149 


An Unfinished Divorce. 


Left alone Berthe drew from her bosom a 
locket suspended on a fine platinum chain. She 
opened it and was gazing at the portrait it con- 
tained, when the bell rang and the original, 
Arthur Bornier, was ushered in. He dropped 
on one knee and kissed her hand. “I live once 
more, fair lady, now that I am in your pre- 
sence.” 

“Arthur,” she replied, “I have just had an 
explanation with Jean and have told him that I 
intended insisting on the divorce.” 

“What did he say and how did he take it?” 
queried the young man as he rose from his 
kneeling posture. 

“He was very much broken u,p. I could not 
help feeling sorry for him, much as he has 
wronged me,” she answered. 

"Of course he is to be pitied at losing such a 
treasure as you. Who would not weep and tear 
his hair at such a thought? But do not pity 
him. I have news to tell you. First let me ask 
you, did he agree to join in asking for the di- 
vorce? You know that according to our laws 
this greatly simplifies matters.” 

“He left before we had definitely decided, 
but from what he said when I played my trump 
card, and told him that I would cite Juliette as 
150 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


co-respondent if he did not, I rather think that 
he will consent. I hope that you really have the 
proofs that you claim to have.” 

“Never you fear, sweetheart, I have them. 
What did he say when you threatened him?” 

“ ‘Madame ( and these are his exact words as 
close as I can remember them) I do not believe 
that there will be any necessity of producing 
your so-called proofs.’ ” 

“H’m. That is vague. Did he say anything 
about me, or rather about us?” and an unpleas- 
ant smile turned the corners of his mouth. 

“Yes he did. He said everything about you 
that he could. He called you a drunkard and 
many other unpleasant names, but of course I 
did not believe what he said.” 

“Of course not,” replied the other reflectively, 
“Of course not. But tell me, does he suspect 
that you return my love?” 

“He does and he does not. It is hard to say. 
But what is your news?” 

“Only this, Jean and Maurice were at the 
casino together in company with Rita and 
Ninette. I must explain to you that Rita is 
Maurice’s mistress and Ninette is a great friend 
of hers. After the performance the four left in 
a carriage. I had them followed. First they 
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An Unfinished Divorce. 


went to Rita’s, where I suppose they had sup- 
per. Then — and this is the important point — ■ 
Jean and Ninette left together and on foot went 
to the latter’s house which is only a few steps 
away. He did not leave until early this morn- 
ing.” 

Arthur awaited with interest the effect of his 
lie. 

“And after that he dared to come home and 
talk to me as he did, to swear that he loved me. 
Oh the scoundrel! I am glad you told me. It 
kills all pity in my heart. It gives me strength 
to proceed. But tell me, dearest, who and what 
is that Boula Omayat? He nearly frightened 
me to death last night. He is diabolical.” 

“What did he do? Did he frighten my dear 
girl. I will tell him he must not do it again. 
And I was not here to protect you!” He step- 
ped forward and tried to take her in his arms, 
but although infatuated with him and despite 
her many faults, Berthe was very sensitive on 
the question of her own physical purity. She 
pushed him from her. “No, Arthur, this would 
be unworthy of us, let us respect one another.” 

“You are right, dearest, forgive me. My love 
for you made me forget myself,” but to himself 
he thought “the foolish prude!” 

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“Thank you, Arthur dearest, I am sure you 
feel about it as I do.” 

“My spotless one, of course I do. You must 
forgive me that the intoxication of your pre- 
sence, that the sight of so much beauty carried 
me away. I shall never forgive myself, even if 
you do, for having offended you. But pardon, 
dearest.” 

Of course she pardoned. Too much ardor 
on the part of a man who woos her, is not a very 
serious crime in the eyes of a woman, especially 
if she be past thirty, so she smiled on him, and 
he thought to himself “what fools these women 
are!” 

“What are you thinking of, Arthur?” 

“I am thinking how beautiful and sweet you 
are. How brave, to have stood what you have 
for all these years : Jean’s neglect, his infidelities 
without number. How I love you for your 
purity and goodness.” 

“I believe in your love, Arthur, yet after my 
sad experience I wonder that I should ever trust 
a man again.” 

“You hurt me, darling, speaking this way. 
You seem to doubt the depth and sincerity of my 
love.” 

“Doubt you, Arthur, never! I long so,” she 
153 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


continued, “to be loved, to be everything to 
someone, to have someone to care for me. We 
women are weak and we live on affection as the 
plant does on sunshine. We need it and without 
it we wither and perish. Am I so very wither- 
ed?” 

“Withered. Why angel you are the most 
beautiful creature in the universe. God was in 
a good humor when he made you and sent you 
to lighten up this dark world and to be my joy.” 

“But I am getting old. Look!” And she 
showed the same white lock to him as to her 
husband. But with what a different gesture. 
The former had been one of anger, spite and 
fury at the thought of his neglect and her lost 
youth. The second was one of deprecation. 

“Old! What nonsense you are talking. 
When you are free, even the recollection of the 
cruelty which has turned those golden locks to 
silver, shall be obliterated. My love shall be 
like the philosopher’s stone and the less pre- 
cious metal shall at its touch be restored to its 
pristine glory.” 

“Thank you, Arthur, I believe you,” she said. 

With this we shall leave them for a time and 
follow Jean to church. 


154 


VIII. 


Not far from the Cathedral of St. Peter's was 
the entrance to a covered passage way which 
pierced diagonally a block of old buildings sur 
rounded by a labyrinth of alleys and small 
streets. This dark and gloomy path, which had 
been the scene of more than one murder, termin- 
ated in a flight of stairs descending into a small 
paved court, from which another passage at 
right angles to the first led to the “Street of the 
Beautiful Girls,” so called because in the middle 
ages it had been the principal thoroughfare of 
the quarter reserved to the use of the impure 
ones of the epoch. 

The old houses, which had witnessed the 
career of many a fair girl and alas her death as 
well, which had sheltered so much pleasure and 
such mad revels, which had harkened to so many 
sobs of joy and of sorrow too, still looked down 
with their solemn faces. Although the quarter 
had been for more than a century devoted to 
other uses, there still lingered about it an in- 
155 


An Unfinished Divorce. 


describable atmosphere of love. Was it really so 
or was it only that the imagination was excited 
by the name, the “Street of the Beautiful Girls,” 
a name so full of amorous suggestion? 

One could almost hear now and again a faint 
sigh of love wafted from a low postern door. 
Such a sigh as would escape from the lips of 
some poor ghost vainly awaiting a gallant whose 
body had long since returned to dust and whose 
spirit had forgotten the way to the “Street of 
the Beautiful Girls.” 

Of all the pleasure, the hearty thoughtless en- 
joyment of youth, the calculating luxury of old 
age, nothing remained except this faint sigh. 
Their very memory had long since been obliter- 
ated, even the memory of the heartbreaks. But 
despite the flight of years and the oblivion the 
stones themselves exhaled a special atmosphere 
and the air was laden with an indescribable 
something which recalled the former denizens of 
the locality. 

This street ended in a fairly large place or 
square paved with round cobble stones between 
which the grass was growing. In the centre and 
shaded by a tall spreading elm, was a fountain 
of yellowish stone, where the women of the neigh- 
borhood procured their water and where the 
156 


An Unfinished Divorce . 

horses slaked their thirst. The north side of this 
sleepy square was occupied by the Church of St. 
Paul, whose square tower with its windowed bel- 
frey lent an air of distinction to the quarter 
which it would otherwise have lacked. 

The remaining sides were flanked by antique 
buildings, whose basements were devoted to the 
shops of petty tradesmen or to workingmen’s 
cafes. Here and there from the walls projected 
swinging signs, decorated with a key, a bunch of 
grapes or with some other pictorial symbol of the 
nature of the commerce carried on within. 

While in no sense an important monument the 
Church of St. Paul was nevertheless an interest- 
ing example of the Romanesque style. Erected 
by one of the old Bishops who had ruled in 
Geneva long before Farel and Calvin had, by 
hanging, confiscation and exile, converted the in- 
habitants to a purer conception of the faith of 
the loving Christ, it had at the time of the Re- 
formation been transformed into a Protestant 
temple. The rich stained glass, of that beauti- 
ful blue which modern art in vain attempts to 
reproduce, which softens the light to that 
religious dimness conducive to the reveries of 
devotion, had been shattered. Calvin, the loving, 
and Agrippa d’Aubigne, the pure, could not suf- 
157 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


fer the idolatrous nature of the pictured scenes. 
Christ suffering on the cross and the Virgin 
gazing tenderly at the Child while the Magi 
worshipped were not to be endured. 

The beautiful altar with its wealth of carving 
and gilt had been overthrown and the conse- 
crated Host had been cast to the dogs with the 
jeer; “Let us see whether God will take care of 
Himself.” But God had not done so. He had 
remained as silent as when hanging on the cross 
He looked down pityingly on those who cried: 
“He hath saved others but Himself He cannot 
save. If He be the Son of God, let Him come 
down from the cross and we will believe.” 

The centuries sped by, the stern belief of 
the first reformers faded until it became so 
weak that religious toleration became possible. 
On a certain day in one of the first years of the 
Nineteenth Century the notes of the “Ave” once 
more echoed through those ancient arches and 
again the tinkling of the silver bell invited the 
faithful to bow their knees before the God who 
again had deigned to take possession of His 
sanctuary. Under the vaulted roof of the old 
church floated the perfume of incense, a per- 
fume which not even three centuries had dis- 
pelled, so impregnated with it had become the 
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An Unfinished Divorce . 


stone. Although the interior was simple and 
plain glass replaced the ancient glory of the 
windows a new altar had been erected and God 
was once more at home. 

It was to this church that Jean made his. way 
through the passage and the street of the “Beau- 
tiful Girls.” As has been seen, tired by his jour- 
ney and his experiences of the night before, he 
had overslept himself. His interview with his 
wife had been a further source of delay. In 
consequence of these hindrances it was very late 
when he entered the sacred edifice and took his 
accustomed seat, the priest being already in the 
midst of the offertory. 

As Geneva is essentially a Protestant city the 
congregation in whose midst he worshiped con- 
sisted principally of foreigners. In it were 
the wealthiest members of the French colony. 

As a result of the latter fact the services were 
conducted with great impressiveness and the 
music was the finest in the city. With a hasty 
glance to see who of his acquaintances were 
present Jean knelt and became absorbed in his 
devotions. 

He really believed and he really prayed and 
there was nothing hypocritical in his action. 
Faith and a sinful life are perfectly consistent. 

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An Unfinished Divorce . 


Although Martin Luther exaggerated when he 
advised his followers to sin in order that they 
might thus show forth to the w T orld their confi- 
dence in the love of God, there is much truth in 
a certain remark of Madame de Pompadour. In 
reply to the surprise expressed by a courtier that 
she, the King’s mistress, should be such a regu- 
lar attendant at mass, the famous beauty ex- 
claimed, “Because I commit one sin is that a 
reason why I should commit two?” 

Jean having to a very marked degree the habit 
of self-analysis, it was by such a train of reason- 
ing that he explained to himself his seeming in- 
consistency. He had no immediate inten- 
tion of changing his manner and mode of life, 
then why did he pray, what good did his pray- 
ing do? Did not Christ commend the publican 
who beat upon his breast and cried, “God be 
merciful to me a sinner,” although it is not re- 
cored of the latter that he made any resolution 
to amend his ways? 

The music, the incense, the lights and the 
marvelous poetry of the ceremony appealed to 
the mystical and sensuous side of his nature, 
softening his grief and filling him with renewed 
hope and courage. When the services were 
finished he made his way toward the door leading 
1G0 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


from the chancel to the vestry room. 

The sacristan, who opened at his knock, 
greeted him with a smile of pleased surprise. 
He was an obsequious individual whose like is 
to be found only in the employ of ecclesiastics 
and in the mysterious world of the sacristy. Of 
uncertain age (whether twenty-five or sixty — it 
was impossible to say) his face and head were 
hairless, his skin shining and yellow like wax. 
Twinkling eyes peered out from beneath droop- 
ing lids with a sly and not altogether un- 
pleasant expression and the mobile lips con- 
cealed a set of strong brown teeth. His form, 
clothed in a musty black coat, reeking of incense 
and spotted from the votive tapers he tended be- 
fore the statue of St. Anthony, was doubled as 
by a perpetual bow. Held close to his chest his 
hands which he was continually rubbing to- 
gether were smooth and long, the fingernails 
coarse and rimmed with black. 

“Monsieur le Cure, here is Monsieur des 
Ormes,” he announced bending still lower in a 
ceremonious salute as he stepped backwards to 
make way for the new comer. Nothing had been 
changed since the last time Jean had entered 
this room, not even since the first time years 
ago. The familiar smell of incense and of 
161 


An Unfinished Divorce. 


wax tapers still lingered and in the corner 
the water was still dropping from the damaged 
faucet beneath which the celebrant washed his 
hands. The old Cure, his back turned towards 
the door, had paused a moment in the occupa- 
tion of folding his vestments to refresh himself 
with a pinch of snuff. At the sacristan’s an- 
nouncement he faced about and with out- 
stretched arms waddled towards our friend. 

The Abbe Moulin, such was the name of the 
priest entrusted by the Bishop with the im- 
portant parish of St. Paul, was jolly, quick tem- 
pered and fat. He possessed a red clean shaven 
face, small bright eyes, the back of his bullet 
head was broad and flat. His short stature and 
tremendous girth, which latter pecularity was 
responsible for the raising of the front of his 
cassock a few inches from the floor, were the 
other salient features of his appearance. 

“Monsieur des Ormes,” he exclaimed, “this is 
indeed a glad surprise.” 

“I am delighted to see you again, Monsieur le 
Cur A You are the first person on whom I have 
called and your gout, is it better?” 

“I have occasional twinges of it, just enough 
to keep me careful. Now tell me how you have 
been, and how is Madame des Ormes. It is a 
162 


An Unfinished Divorce, 

long while since I have seen her. She has 
scarcely been to church since you left.” 

“She is very well thank you. If you have a 
moment to spare I should like to have a short 
conversation with you. I am afraid that my re- 
lations with her are very much strained.” 

“I am not surprised, my poor boy, what could 
you expect? You have left her alone so much.” 

“Undoubtedly it is my fault, but that does 
not make it any easier to bear.” 

“Surely not. But come over to the Cure. We 
can talk the matter over while I drink my coffee. 
It is very trying when one reaches my age to say 
the last mass. My Vicar was sick this morning 
and I had to take his place. Here it is past 
twelve and I have as yet had nothing to eat.” 
So saying, he took up his hat and opened the 
door into the street. “After you, my friend.” 

The Cur6 occupied an apartment in a quaint 
old house on an alley neighboring the church. 
In days gone by it had probably served for pur- 
poses less holy than the sheltering of a worthy 
ecclesiastic. The hollows in the steps of the 
circular flight of stone stairs up which they 
mounted had been worn by lighter and more 
joyous steps than his. 

Brighter eyes had peered through the trap in 
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An Unfinished Divorce . 


the door arranged for the inspection of visitors, 
than those of his old housekeeper who, having 
made sure of their identity, opened to her mas- 
ter’s ring. The aged Savoyard peasant with 
her tight-fitting black net cap, over which she 
placed her hat when she had occasion to go 
out, had lost none of the caution of her kind and 
was prepared to take no risk of admitting 
thieves. She greeted Jean with a grin of pleas- 
ure that distorted her toothless mouth. 

“Marie, my coffee in the parlor,” ordered the 
Abbe, as he ushered Jean into that room, where 
visitors of importance were received. 

Here also nothing had been changed, except 
perhaps that the light buff paper with which the 
walls were covered had grown more faded and 
dim, and the carpetless board floor a trifle more 
rough from Marie’s vigorous scrubbing. 

The benign countenance of Pius X still looked 
down from between the windows and smiled at 
the framed portrait of the Cure’s mother on the 
opposite panel. A kindly old peasant woman 
whose face was lit up by a look of pride as if 
she were constantly recalling to herself the dig- 
nity to which her son had risen — the highest 
dignity in her eyes attainable by a mortal. 

On either side of the Spanish crucifix which 
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An Unfinished Divorce. 


hung over the mantel, the Christ red and blue 
from blood and bruises, horrible in His distorted 
agony, stood statues of St. Joseph and of 
the Immaculate Conception in tinted plaster. 
Their lack of character had always appealed to 
Jean as being in such excellent keeping with the 
general aspect of the room. At the priest’s in- 
dication he took his seat on the walnut sofa up- 
holstered in purple cloth, turning yellow at the 
seams and around the buttons with which it was 
tufted. 

His host seated at the table in the centre of 
the room, waited for his factotum to bring in his 
coffee. In front of him stood a large china 
lamp with paper shade, a copy of the Correspon- 
dent, and a work on the miracles of Lourdes. 
When he had appeased his appetite with 
numerous pieces of bread steeped in the steam- 
ing mixture, he turned to his guest. 

“Tell me now, Monsieur Jean, what the dif- 
ficulty is.” Jean did not reply, but rising 
from his seat walked over to the window and 
looked down to the street. The tears came to 
his eyes as he pressed his burning forehead 
against the cool glass. 

“Come, courage, tell me what is wrong. 
Madame des Ormes is angry with you, is she not? 

165 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


Why do you not go home and tell her that you 
are sorry? Do not let your pride stand in your 
way.” 

“My pride,” he answered. “There is no ques- 
tion of pride. If you could have heard me talk 
to her you would not have thought that there 
was any question of pride.” 

“But what could you have done, my poor boy? 
Is it your absence that has angered her?” 

“You know, Father, as well as I do. I have 
confessed to you often enough.” 

“Alas, yes, I know. But heretofore she lias 
always forgiven you. Tell her this time that 
you will absolutely change your manner of life; 
that you are older and more settled.” 

“I have appealed to her in every way. I have 
asked her for the children’s sake to give up this 
idea of divorce. But all is in vain.” 

“Of divorce!,” said the priest in a startled 
tone. “Surely your wife knows that as a Catho- 
lic this is impossible.” 

“Did not you yourself say that she had not 
been seen at church for a long while?” 

“Yes, it is at least eight months since she has 
been at St. Paul’s,” assented the other. “But 
then,” he added, “she may have gone somewhere 
else.” 


166 


An Unfinished Divorce . 

“No, no. I am sure she has not.” 

“What a pity, what a pity. I know what I 
shall do. I shall go and see her myself.” 

“It will do no good I am afraid. I went down 
on my knees to her. I promised her everything. 
I recalled to her what a frightful thing it would 
be for the children. But nothing had any 
effect.” 

“Has she not a woman’s heart? No woman 
could resist such an appeal.” 

Jean immediately took his wife’s defence. 
“On the contrary, she has the tenderest heart 
and always, up to now, has been a loving wife. 
But I suppose that I have strained the cord to 
the breaking point.” 

“That is right, my friend. Stand up for her” 
said the old gentleman approvingly. “But if 
that is the case she must be in love with some- 
one else.” Not receiving a reply he continued, 
“Does she wish to marry again?” 

“Not that I know of. You see I have been 
away from home so long. I only returned yester- 
day.” 

The priest w T ith the experience of the human 
heart gained through many years of practice at 
the confessional was sure that his surmise was 
correct and therefore changed his line of attack. 

167 


An Unfinished Divorce. 


“She has not yet addressed herself to a lawyer?” 
he asked. “She has taken no steps?” 

“No, but to-morrow I must go and explain 
matters to Maitre Rapagon. She wishes me to 
engage him as her counsel.” 

“You to engage her lawyer! You will do no 
such thing. You must have nothing whatsoever 
to do with this matter, the church forbids it. 
Even from a worldly point of view you should 
not help her, but try to gain time. Why does she 
not attend to the matter herself?” 

“I suppose she does not like to. She has never 
been used to transacting business.” 

“Take advantage of this sentiment to gain 
time,” counselled his friend. 

“I would like to, but she threatens that if I do 
not do everything in my power to help her, she 
will cite by name as co-respondent, a lady of our 
acquaintance.” 

“This is terrible,” said the priest, very much 
upset. “Do not forget your prayers. Pray to 
the Virgin and to St. Joseph, the protector of 
the Christian family.” 

“I will follow your advice. Come to the house 
and take lunch, it can do no harm. See her. 
Perhaps you can touch some chord I have been 
unable to,” suggested Jean with a slight smile 
168 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


at the other’s perturbation. 

“Thank you I will. Marie,” he called, “bring 
me my coat and hat'. I will not be home to 
lunch.” 

The near-sighted priest carefully made his way 
down the dark stairs and conducted Jean into 
the street. Both remained silent during the 
short walk, the Abbe thinking over what he was 
to say and what arguments he would bring to 
bear, and the other brooding over his grief. 

The sound of the bell interrupted Berthe and 
Arthur’s tete-a-tete. 

“Who can that be?” said Arthur. 

“My husband doubtless. Do not leave,” she 
said, as Jean accompanied by the Abb6 entered, 
“you will stay and lunch with us. I am very 
glad to see you Monsieur le Cure. Will you not 
sit down?” 

“Yes, do stay to lunch, Uncle Arthur,” said 
Aime, who had followed his father into the 
room. “You always do on Sunday you know.” 

The Cure noted the by-play and was more than 
ever convinced that his surmise was correct, and 
further that Arthur was the cause of Madame 
des Ormes’ conduct. At this moment another 
ring sounded at the door. “Who is that coming 
now?” demanded Berthe. 

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An Unfinished Divorce . 


“It is probably Maurice. I invited him to 
lunch,” her husband replied. 

“I hope that the lunch will be as good as your 
supper last night,” she said meaningly. 

“I perceive that some one amongst his other 
virtues possesses that of being a spy,” Jean 
soliloquized. Arthur started, but was re- 
strained by a gesture from Berthe. 

'•Good morning, Maurice,” she said as he en- 
tered. “It is an age since I have set eyes on 
you.” 

Maurice bowed his thanks. “I have been 
away a great deal lately. I must make you my 
most humble excuses for my neglect. Indeed, I 
would scarcely have dared face your just an- 
ger if I had not met Jean who was good enough 
to ask me to lunch,” he answered smiling. 

“I suppose that he found four or five hours 
too long a separation,” she said. 

Maurice glanced quickly at Arthur, who 
turned red. “Four or five hours? I do not un- 
derstand to what you allude, really I do not.” 

“It is of no consequence,” she replied, and as 
the butler just then announced that lunch was 
served, she took the arm of the Cure, who had 
stood by an attentive observer, and followed by 
the others passed through the parlor into the 
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An Unfinished Divorce. 


dining room. 

Before they had seated themselves the hostess 
exclaimed : “Boula Omavat is coming to lunch, 
I had quite forgotten it. Oh, here he is now,” 
she added, as the personage in question entered. 
“Excuse me for not having waited,” she went on, 
but we were afraid you were not coming. Let 
me introduce you to the Abbe Moulin and to 
Monsieur de Paquis.” The gentlemen bowed, 
the Cure looking very much astonished at the 
shaggy head and exotic appearance of the latest 
comer. 

“Monsieur PAbbe will you say grace?” asked 
Jean. The good Cure crossed himself and rapidly 
repeated the latin formula, wondering whether a 
priest in good standing of the Holy Roman 
Catholic and Apostolic Church had ever found 
himself in stranger company. 

“An atheist,” he thought as he looked at 
Maurice; “a poor misguided woman,” as his eye 
fell on Berthe, “and a servant of the devil,” as 
he glared at Boula. Maurice apparently read his 
thoughts as his glance shifted from guest to 
guest and smiled shrewdly as their eyes met. 

“I quite agree with you Monsieur PAbb6,” he 
said. 

“I did not say anything,” was the hasty reply, 
171 


An Unfinished Divorce. 

“except the grace, and I am very glad if you 
agree with me in that.” 

“Boula Omayat,” broke in Berthe, “will you 
honor us, by calling down the blessing of Krishna 
on the assembly?” 

The Yogi extended his hands: “Krishna, holy 
one, may we be absorbed in thy love.” 

At this invocation, simple though it was, the 
Abbe Moulin again crossed himself rapidly and 
many times muttering, “Retro Satanas.” Up to 
this moment all had remained sitanding, but 
they now seated themselves and though the Yogi 
denied the existence of matter and the ecclesias- 
tic maintained that all good things were in 
heaven, it was observed that neither neglected 
what was placed before him. 

The repast finished, Jean proposed that the 
men should stay where they were, to smoke and 
take their coffee. Berthe excused herself on the 
plea of having a headache. Boula shook his 
head. “Poor woman,” he said in tones of pro- 
found commiseration as she left the room. 

“Monsieur Omayat,” exclaimed Jean angrily, 
“I have no intention of quarrelling with you in 
my own house, but I must ask you to leave my 
private affairs alone.” 

“Some day, my friend, your eyes will be 
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Aii Unfinished Divorce . 


opened and you will see that all men are broth- 
ers and that there are no such things as private 
affairs.” 

“We know now that there are none when you 
are nosing around,” cut in Maurice. 

“May Krishna reveal to you the truth, young 
man,” said the Yogi. 

At this the Abbe started up. “Krishna reveal 
to him the truth ! What is this Krishna of whom 
you speak? You have come into this Christian 
family and turned from the faith the mother and 
the wife. Rather pray that Christ, the Son of 
the Living God, may save her, you and him.” 

“Man, when your faith was invented mine 
was old.” 

“Do not blaspheme, lest God strike you down 
in your sin, devil worshipper that you are.” 

“Devil worshipper I? You call me this, you 
who worship for a God, a dead man, whose idol 
is a dead man hanging on a cross.” 

Speechless with indignation the Abbe’s face 
flamed and he rose, quivering with emotion. 
“This man Christ’” he cried, “is living. He arose 
from the dead. He is the Son of God.” 

“We find legends to the same effect in many 
ancient mythologies,” ventured Maurice, vastly 
amused at this interchange of compliments. 

173 


An Unfinished Divorce. 


“Right you are, young man,” said the Yogi. 
“At the dawn of history, such legends were in 
circulation. ” 

The Abbe concluded that the lunch table was 
not the proper place to continue the argument. 
“If you will excuse me,” he said, “I will go in 
and have a word with Madame des Ormes, and 
then I must be leaving.” 

He found Berthe seated in the library. A 
faint smile curved her lips as she noted his flus- 
tered appearance and reflected on what must 
have occasioned it. The Abbe took her hand in 
his. “Madame, I blessed your father and 
mother’s marriage, I christened you and gave 
you your first communion, when you and Jean 
plighted your troth I witnessed it in the name 
of the Most High. I trust that you will excuse 
me for wfliat may seem an impertinent interfer- 
ence in your affairs.” 

“You are free to say what you please.” 

“Your poor husband came to me in great dis- 
tress and told me wfiiat you had decided on.” 

“Did he tell you also how by his neglect and 
his infidelities he had driven me to separate my- 
self from him — to take this step?” 

“He did not attempt to palliate his faults — he 
admitted everything — but he is heartbroken. 

174 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


Think, madame, what you are doing. Think of 
the effect on your children. Do not forget that 
the church does not recognize divorce.” 

“I do not wish to wound you, but the church 
has nothing to say to me.” 

“The church has nothing to say to you? Do 
you realize that it is God who speaks through 
her and that He absolutely forbids the severing 
of the marriage tie. ‘Whosoever shall put away 
his wife and marry another committeth adultery 
against her, and if a woman shall put away her 
husband and marry another she committeth 
adultery!’ Forgive as you hope to be, forgiven. 
Jean is suffering. Let me go to him and tell 
him that all is pardoned.” 

“If I did relent it would only postpone the evil 
day. He would begin again. You do not know 
what I have been through and how often I have 
forgiven.” 

“He has learnt his lesson. Give him another 
trial and I am certain that you will not regret 
it.” 

“I am sorry, Monsieur le Cure, but my hus- 
band never learns.” 

“Can I do nothing to change this resolution?” 

“Nothing. My mind is made up.” 

“Then I must bid you good-bye. I will pray 
175 


An Unfinished Divorce. 

God and the Virgin that they may soften your 
heart.” 

“May I have the pleasure of accompanying 
you?” asked Maurice who had entered the room 
as the Abbe was about to leave. 

“Certainly, Monsieur de Paquis, certainly,” 
said the good priest heartily. 

“I want to speak to you about Jean,” said 
Maurice as they walked in the direction of the 
Abbe’s abode. 

“Poor young man, I am sorry for him, but 
when one has sinned one must expect to suffer.” 

“This is aside from the question. What I wish 
to ask you is, can you think of any way of help- 
ing him?” 

“I cannot, for I fear (and I do not think that 
I am guilty of a hasty conclusion) that Madame 
des Ormes has brought herself to believe that 
she is in love with someone else.” 

“Whose name is Arthur Bornier.” 

“Since you mention it, I must say that it ap- 
pears so to me.” 

“You confirm my impression and I can see but 
one way to arrange the matter,” said Maurice 
reflectively, “which is that Jean should kill Bor- 
nier.” 

The priest stopped short and held up his hands 
176 


An Unfinished Divorce. 


with such an expression of horror on his face 
that his companion could not prevent a smile. 
“Unfortunate man,” he cried, “would you make 
of our young friend a murderer as well as an 
adulterer?” 

“I can see no particular objection to it,” was 
the reply. “The Bible teaches us that he who 
has broken one law is guilty of having broken all. 
So I cannot see that killing Bornier would dimin- 
ish Jean’s chances of a happy hereafter. Besides 
that particular question does not interest me in 
the least.” 

The priest gasped. “This is awful, Monsieur 
de Paquis, you do not realize what you are say- 
ing?” 

“But surely a man has the right to defend his 
home and the sanctity of the marriage tie. You 
yourself must admit that. 

“We are taught to hate the sin, but to love the 
sinner. I love our young friend, but he should 
not have begun by sinning.” 

“I entirely agree with you. But now that it 
is done, he must defend himself.” 

“Defend himself, yes ; but I cannot admit that 
it is ever right to murder.” 

“I did not say that he should murder him,” 
corrected Maurice. 


177 


r A.n Unfinished Divorce . 

“Why you just said that Jean ought to kill 
Monsieur Bornier.” 

“Certainly but he need not murder him to do 
that. He can insult him on some pretext and 
then, as he is a good shot, kill him to-morrow 
morning: the sooner the better.” 

“But dueling is contrary to Christ’s teachings. 
It is nothing else than murder.” 

“Excuse me Monsieur le Cure, if I disagree 
with you, but in my estimation dueling is not 
only Christain in its origin, which is to be 
sought for in the judgment of God or trial by 
combat, but also in its essence.” 

“I do not see how you can make that out,” re- 
plied the Abbe. “Our Lord most certainly said. 
‘If he smite you on one cheek turn to him the 
other cheek also.’ ” 

“Then would Christ have said ‘If he steal your 
wife’s affection give him her body also?’ But the 
duellist is more Royalist than the King, more 
Christian than Christ: Instead of only turning 
the other cheek he allows the smiter to shoot at 
him the next morning.” 

“Your argument is ingenious but specious,” 
the priest replied, smiling in spite of himself, 
“and shows why the interpretation of the 

178 


An Unfinished Divorce . 

Scriptures should be intrusted to the church 
alone.” 

“I should not be surprised if it were rather 
sophistical,” and Maurice returned his smile. “But 
seriously the dueling code seems to me in a cer- 
tain sense to be as truly Christian in its spirit 
as is barbarous and cowardly the unwritten 
law now held in such esteem in the United 
States. Under the old pagan and under the new 
brainstorm system you simply make away with 
the man that displeases you. You give him no 
chance for his life, you strike at him from be- 
hind. In the duel, on the contrary, for coward- 
ice you substitute bravery and for treachery fair 
play.” 

“But you have no right to kill at all, fairly or 
treacherously,” replied the priest. 

“Is it not allowable to defend one’s life even 
to the extent of killing?” 

“Most assuredly, that is a right recognized by 
human as well as divine legislation.” 

“And is not honor dearer and more precious 
than life? No, Monsieur le Cure,” continued Mau- 
rice. “The duellist puts into practice the gospel 
precept of doing unto others as ye would that they 
should do unto you; he says, ‘It is true that 
this man has greviously offended me, has 
179 


An Unfinished Divorce. 


wronged me most outrageously; but neverthe- 
less I will give him a chance for his life.’ And so 
instead of shooting him in the back with an au- 
tomatic pistol he risks his existence against his 
enemy’s.” 

“Monsieur de Paquis I ask you,” said the 
Abbe, “not to counsel Jean in this manner. Be 
patient and you will see that God will interfere 
to protect the right. He will even perform a 
miracle if necessary.” 

“I do not believe in miracles,” replied the 
other, “but I promise you that I will not be 
hasty, that I will not advise Jean to fight until 
every other means has been exhausted.” 

“Thank you, you will not regret this, and God 
will bless you for it. But here I am at home. 
Will you not come in for a few moments?” 

“Excuse me, Monsieur l’Abbe if I look at my 
watch. Yes, I have the time. I will accept with 
pleasure, it is now quite a while since I have 
been to see you,” and he followed the old priest 
up the winding stairs. 

Over the bottle of wine which Marie had 
placed before them the two continued their con- 
versation. “Ah, Monsieur de Paquis, what an 
awful thing this divorce is,” began the Abbe. 

“On this point we both agree, although for dif- 
1S0 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


ferent reasons, since of course I do not accept 
your dogma of the sacramental nature of the 
marriage relation.” 

“Yet you would insist on its indissolubility?” 
asked the surprised Abbe. 

“Most assuredly, and when I said that our 
reasons were different I was speaking carelessly. 
The church in her wisdom, gained through long 
experience, saw that the family tie would have to 
be strengthened if civilization was to advance 
along the lines which it had taken in our west- 
ern communities, and she therefore raised the 
primeval marriage tie to the dignity of a sacra- 
ment. You accept as your reason the decision of 
the church. I accept as mine the facts on which 
that decision was based. The Protestants think 
differently, their religion being more individual- 
istic. Accordingly they have allowed divorce 
and in one well known case, Luther and Mel- 
ancthon authorized bigamy.” 

“I know nothing of the Protestants ; but mar- 
riage — especially the Christian marriage — is a 
divine institution. ‘These two shall become one 
flesh.’ It is a sacrament instituted by Jesus 
Christ.” 

“How then can you explain that St. Gregory 
of Tours speaks approvingly of the Christian 
181 


An Unfinished Divorce. 


king, who married to a barren wife, followed the 
example of Abraham and took unto himself a 
concubine? ‘At the intercession of the Virgin’ 
exclaims the holy chronicler, ‘a child w T as born 
to them.’ ” 

“I cannot believe that a saint would have ap- 
proved of an adultery.” 

“Perhaps not,” replied Maurice. “But if 
things continue at the present rate we will have 
to make a serious change in the organization of 
our society, or rather the change will accom- 
plish itself. We will no longer be able to accept 
the family as the social unit.” 

“What then would you have?” asked the 
priest. 

“There are two forces working towards the 
suppression of marriage. The misuse of the in- 
stitution and the economic freedom of women. 
An institution which ceases to fulfil the object 
for which it was created must die. Consider the 
feudal system. Originally a compact by which 
the strong were to protect the w T eak, in return 
for w T hich protection they w T ere entitled to exact 
certain services, the nobles in the end neglected 
their duties and thought only of their rights. 
The result was the destruction of the system. 
So with marriage. It was instituted for the or- 
182 


An Unfinished Divorce. 


derly propagation of the human species. With 
the introduction of race suicide it has been di- 
verted from its purpose and has come to be 
looked on only as a legal means for the gratifica- 
tion of lust; hence its decay.” 

“You are right, my friend,” replied the Abbe. 
“In almost every relation of life we have placed 
the cart before the horse. We should not work 
to live, but live to work. Goodness is the con- 
sequence of happiness and not happiness of 
goodness, and true happiness can only be found 
in submission to the Divine Will. But what 
were you going to say about the economic free- 
dom of woman?” 

“Simply this: It is obvious that women cap- 
able of caring for themselves will no longer 
marry with the sole aim of being supported. The 
fact that the birth of a child outside of wedlock 
has been considered a disgrace to a woman, is 
purely an economic phenomenon. The idea 
underlying all sex prejudice, is the necessity of 
preventing children being brought into the 
world with no positive claim on the father 
for support. When a brother shoots his sister’s 
betrayer and is applauded by his neighbors, un- 
consciously he and with him the community are 
actuated by the desire to protect the pecuniary 
183 


An Unfinished Divorce. 


resources of the family and of the state by ren- 
dering illicit propagation dangerous. That the 
husband slays the wife’s paramour is attribut- 
able to his insistence that no doubt shall be 
thrown on the paternity of the children he is 
called on to support. We have not gotten over 
the idea that women are our property. The pro- 
tection we grant them is a sign of their depen- 
dency, a species of Monroe Doctrine as it were. 

“Now let women once acquire economic free- 
dom. Being able to support such children as 
they might see fit to bring into the world they 
would rather resent than otherwise, the slaugh- 
ter of their lovers, nor would their brothers have 
any motive for going to this extreme. In Eng- 
land in the first half of the nineteenth century, 
when through the indiscriminate distribution of 
out-door relief, the girl-mother became a source 
of revenue to her family, bastardy ceased to be 
shameful.” 

“I suppose that your induction is,” said the 
Abbe, “that eventually marriage will cease and 
the unit of society, instead of being the family 
as at present constituted, will be the mother sur- 
rounded by her children. And this,” cried the 
Abbe, “is the boasted progress which the Protes- 
tants, the Socialists and the Free Masons ask 
184 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


us to admire!” He raised his hands as he spoke 
and let them fall heavily on his knees. 

“Yes, that is about it, and if we wish to con- 
serve our present form of civilization we must 
turn all our efforts to the strengthening of the 
family tie. I admit that the absence of divorce 
in some cases entails frightful hardships, but 
these must be the price we pay for the many ad- 
vantages we derive from our complicated social 
organization.” 

“It is right that you should study the human 
side of the question, but how beautiful is the 
doctrine of the church, that marriage is a sacred 
and holy state in which according to God’s law 
one man is to be joined to one woman, in sorrow 
and in joy until death shall them part. If the 
oath of one is violated let the other remain true. 
With divorce and race suicide everything is 
altered. How can a woman expect her husband 
to fulfil his contract and remain faithful if she 
shirks her duty by refusing to bear him chil- 
dren?” 

“Indeed, how can she?” replied Maurice. 
“Then again race suicide is a sign of devitaliza- 
tion. The man no longer has the force of char- 
acter to insist on the woman fulfilling her obli- 
gation or else he lacks confidence in himself as a 
185 


An Unfinished Divorce. 


provider. But let me ask you, Monsieur PAbbe, 
did you ever consider the physiological aspect 
of divorce ?” 

“I cannot say that I have,” replied the Cure. 

“As you are well aware,” went on Maurice, 
“when breeding animals one must use the 
greatest care in the selection of the first mate, 
for his qualities will influence for good or bad 
all the female’s future offspring. That the same 
is true with human beings cannot be doubted. 
And it is but natural that it should be so. The 
mother derives from her unborn child certain 
traits of the father which may be transmitted to 
the fruit of another union. Her recollections 
and the comparisons, she cannot fail to make, 
must also exercise a profound influence. Here 
lies the great objection to divorce and to the re- 
marriage of widows. The fact that retroactive 
jealousy, the jealousy of acts committed before 
marriage, is so powerful in men and so weak in 
women is to be attributed to this same hidden 
cause. It was also probably for this reason that 
Jesus Christ permitted a man to put away his 
wife for fornication, that is for an antenuptial 
fault.” 

“You still persist in looking only at the 
natural side of the question,” replied the priest. 

186 


An Unfinished Divorce. 

“But why search for recondite explanations 
when obvious ones are at hand? For instance, 
did you ever wonder why it was that deeply re- 
ligious people — I do not refer to hypocrites — 
are so often excessively sensual and so prone to 
be addicted to the pleasures of the flesh ?” 

“I have observed it, and I presume that it is 
because God wishes, by making clear to us our 
weakness, to prevent pride of heart,” replied the 
Abbe. 

“My explanation is quite different. There 
are three basic passions governing human 
action : hunger, sex appetite and religious emo- 
tion. The one great principle underlying these 
is the instinct of self preservation, the longing 
to prolong life. We eat to maintain life, we 
propagate in order that we may live again in our 
children and we hope through religion to corn 
tinue to live in some mysterious hereafter. A 
person possessed of strong emotions is forced to 
give them expression in one or more of 
these forms. There is the solution, for a deeply 
religious nature presupposes deep emotions.’ 

“I cannot possibly admit,” remonstrated the 
Abbe, “that sensualism and religion are but two 
manifestations of the same impulse — I cannot 
possibly admit that.” 


187 


An Unfinished Divorce. 


“But how can you deny it? The devout girl, 
especially she who mortifies her body, becomes 
with the greatest ease a voluptuary, and to show 
that the contrary is also true I need but point 
to Mary Magdalen.” 

The priest hesitated a moment. “Yes, that 
is true, for we priests are warned to be more 
than circumspect in our dealings with unusually 
devout women.” 

“There you are, you see,” said Maurice. “Now 
I do not wish to offend you, but here is a strange 
thought. In the doctrine of trans-substantia- 
tion we find these three ideas embodied : the con- 
secrated host is the actual body of the man Jesus 
loved of Mary Magdalen, the Man whose perfect 
chastity enthralls while it exasperates the femi- 
nine imagination. It is food with all that this 
word implies and then again it is God. Can we 
wonder at the strength of a church whose prin- 
cipal belief thus appeals to the basic impulse of 
our nature? The Man God says ‘My body is in- 
deed food/ ” 

With these words Maurice took out his watch. 
“I must be going, Monsieur le Cur6,” he said, “or 
I shall miss my engagement. You must be glad 
to get rid of me.” 

“Oh, no, your conversation interested me very 
188 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


much. You certainly have novel ideas. Do not 
forget your promise about Jean. And — God 
bless you. You may not be as far as you think 
from accepting the truth.” 


189 


IX. 


Soon after the departure of Maurice and the 
priest, Arthur Bornier and Boula Omayat also 
took their leave. “We shall meet to-night at 
Madame de Tourville’s,” said Arthur as he 
pressed her hand. 

“Certainly. And are you going to Madame 
Rondin’s supper?” she asked. 

“You are to be there. Is not that a sufficient 
answer to your question?” 

Having walked a few steps in silence. “Tell 
me, Milovitch,” at length asked Arthur snicker- 
ing, “what did you do to Madame des 
Ormes and how much did you get out of her?” 

“Be careful,” said the other sharply as he 
looked suspiciously around, “do not mention my 
name in the street. We may be followed. The 
Russian Secret Service has its spies everywhere. 
As to the money matter we will settle that later.” 
Arthur made a gesture of dissent. 

“Tell me at least how much it was.” 

190 


An Unfinished Divorce. 


“Not very much, two hundred francs. I will 
give you a hundred when we are safe at Mas- 
oushka’s.” 

“Undoubtedly you are lying and she gave 
you more — she did last time. But go on tell me 
what you did.” 

The man laughed as he answered. “I made 
her think that she had seen the devil in person.” 

Arthur looked startled as he asked. “How 
did you manage? She is not a woman to be 
easily taken in.” 

“The trick w’as simple. With the aid of the 
butler, I had hidden Dimitri dressed in pink, 
silk tights under the sofa. You can divine the 
rest.” 

“That is why Dimitri was so late last night at 
the casino,” thought Arthur. “Be careful, do 
not go too far. You might kill the goose that lays 
the golden eggs,” he said aloud, laughing at his 
witticism. “But look here,” he continued, “and 
this is more serious. Something must be done 
about Paulo vitch. He will get us all into trouble, 
if he keeps on. Last night at the casino he was 
even more drunk than usual and in a moment of 
fury threw a champagne bottle at Jacques Gran- 
din, fortunately missing him. He was arrested 
and it was only with the greatest difficulty that 
191 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


I pursuaded the police to consent to his release. 
They said nothing, but I could see that they were 
becoming suspicious.” 

“We shall probably find him and Masoushka 
at home. Do not worry. I will give him a piece 
of my mind.” 

“Let us hope that it will do him some good, 
though I doubt it.” 

“Wait and see. But your heedlessness in men- 
tioning my name is quite as perilous as his drun- 
ken carouses. Let the police once find out who 
I am and it will be all over with me. I really 
do not see what induced Mashouska to let you 
into my secret.” 

“I forgot. And anyway we were alone, there 
was no one even in sight.” 

“That makes no difference. I am afraid that 
in any event I must be leaving. A lady, a Mad- 
ame Verso vitch, who owns large estates in a lo- 
cality where I made myself very objectionable 
to the oppressors of the poor, has.recently arrived 
in Geneva, and she may recognize me in spite of 
my disguise. 

“But you have nothing to fear. Switzerland 
has always refused to extradite political offen- 
ders. It is only common law criminals that she 
surrenders.” 


192 


An Unfinished Divorce. 


“Is that so?” And Milovitch looked disagree- 
ably at his companion. 

“You know that as well as I do.” 

“Well, drop the subject. But now that we are 
nearly at our destination I wish to ask you what 
your intentions are towards Masoushka.” 

“My intentions? What do you mean by my 
intentions?” 

“Do not try and play the innocent with me. 
You are perfectly well aware of the significa- 
tion of my words. You seem to take a great deal 
of interest in her and I would like to know 
what your attentions mean.” 

“Although I cannot see that it is any affair of 
yours, still I am willing to admit that I admire 
her very much. You did not suppose that it 
was you or Nicholas that constituted the attrac- 
tion, did you?” 

“Stop your sneering. I have no particular in- 
terest in the matter one way or the other. A 
woman is a free agent and I cannot see where 
the resemblance lies, that some would establish, 
between robbing a man of his pocketbook and 
depriving him of the company of his female 
companion. The acts are totally different and 
so though Nicholas is my friend I shall say 
nothing. But any disturbance at present would 
193 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


be excessively disagreeable to me.” 

“If you do not want a disturbance the best 
thing for you to do is to keep your hands off,” 
said Arthur sullenly. 

“I wish to warn you that Nicolas Paulovitch is 
not a man with whom one may trifle with im- 
punity, he is violent, utterly reckless, and un- 
scrupulous.” 

“Many thanks for your warning. I can take 
care of myself.” 

They had now reached the house, and having 
climbed the long flights, found themselves 
once more in the hall beneath the skylight. 
“Good afternoon, Masoushka,” said Arthur, as 
in answer to his ring the girl opened the door. 
“Is Nicholas at home?” 

“Yes,” she replied with a sigh, half of amuse- 
ment and half of self-pity. “He is, and what is 
more, he is excessively cross with a bad head- 
ache.” 

“That is not surprising, after the way he car- 
ried on last night.” 

“Arthur is right and Nicholas must really be 
more careful,” interrupted Milovitch. “If he 
keeps on drinking this way he will ruin his nerve 
and there will be an accident. Besides, he runs 
the risk of exciting the curiosity of the police.” 

194 


An Unfinished Divorce. 


“That is what I tell him,” assented the girl, 
“but when once drink takes hold of a man there 
is nothing to be done.” 

“Who is that, Masoushka?” growled Nicholas 
from within. “Will my head never stop ach- 
ing?” 

“It is Arthur and Milovitch,” she replied. 
“As for your head, put some more ice on it, that 
is the best thing.” 

“Or better still, stop your drinking,” scolded 
Milovitch as he entered the room where extended 
on a couch lay Nicholas with a tow^el around his 
head. 

“Mind your own business! I will drink what 
I want, and when I want,” replied the latter in 
surly tones. 

“With your permission, I consider that it is 
my business. In the first place your continual 
brawls will finish by attracting the attention of 
the police and everyone will get into trouble — I 
among the rest. And,” he looked around the 
room as he asked the question, “do you consider 
this a fit place for a drunken man or a nervous 
wreck to be turned loose in?” 

A single glance would have satisfied anyone of 
the truth of this last reflection, for so full of 
explosives was it, that the powder magazine of a 
195 


An Unfinished Divorce. 


man-of-war would have been a fitter place for a 
man not in possession of his faculties. To pro- 
tect the interior from the gaze of prying eyes 
newspapers had been glued over the panes of the 
one window, which opened on a court to admit 
the necessary light and air into the tiny room. 
Beneath it a table had been placed on which 
reposed amongst retorts and other chemical ap- 
paratus a bomb, loaded and ready for use. 

Shelves built against the wall were laden with 
bottles containing acid, volatile oils and powders 
of various kinds. In one corner stood a stove in 
which a brisk fire was burning, for the day was 
cold. Over the shabby couch on which the sick 
man lay groaning, hung a bookcase crowded 
with the most modern works on chemistry and 
from beneath it projected the ends of two or 
three sections of iron gas-piping. 

To Milovitch’s sermon Nicholas grunted an 
inarticulate reply. Then turning to Masoushka 
“There is no ice here,” he fretfully complained. 
“Bring me some more, my head is splitting. And 
while you are about it, get me a glass of vodka.” 

“Why do you not listen to Milovitch? You 
had better not drink any more,” she remon- 
strated. But at the look of anger in his face 
she hastily left the room, and returned carrying 
196 


An Unfinished Divorce. 


a bowl of ice and a bottle of Russian spirits 
with the necessary glasses. “Perhaps you are 
right, the vodka will steady your nerves,” she 
said. 

When he had swallowed his dram she gently 
removed the towel and filling it with ice replaced 
it on his burning head. How strong and deep 
is that instinct which impels a woman to care for 
the weak and helpless! What sweetness and 
gentleness lie hidden in every woman's heart! 
Masoushka, who would without a qualm have 
blown a thousand innocent fellow beings to 
atoms to further what she considered a just 
cause, was as loving and tender as a sister of 
charity in the care she lavished on this man, 
whom she feared and hated. 

“What brought you here to-day?” snarled 
Nicholas as he laid his head once more on the 
cushion she had smoothed for him. “Is there 
any news?” And turning to Arthur who stood 
near the girl, “I think I know what you came 
for.” 

“We wanted to see how you were getting on, 
and I have a little private business to talk over 
with Milovitch,” replied Arthur good naturedly. 

“And I came to tell you,” said the pseudo- 
mystic, “that Wassily has arrived from Russia. 

197 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


He is at the house up the lake and wishes to see 
you to-night. You must take the nine o’clock 
train.” At this announcement Arthur and Mas- 
oushka endeavored to appear unconcerned, but 
involuntarily their looks met and she cast down 
her eyes and blushed. If Milovitch noticed any- 
thing he concealed the fact and Nicholas was too 
much occupied with his head to pay any great at- 
tention to what was going on around him. 

“Come, Milovitch,” said Arthur, “are you 
going to hand over what you owe me?” 

“And if I do not, what then?” replied the other 
glancing meaningly at Masoushka. 

“Why I will make you. That is simple enough.” 

“Make me? How can you do that? I am not 
accustomed to being made to do things.” 

“A word from me and the whole gang .” 

Scarcely had these words left Arthur’s lips when 
Nicholas forgetting his aching head sprang to his 
feet and covered the young man with a revolver 
which had lain concealed at his side. 

“Be careful what you say or I will blow your 
brains out,” he roared. Arthur, though a 
scoundrel, was not a coward. He looked con- 
temptuously at the Russian. 

“Keep quiet, Nicholas, put up your pistol. 
Milovitch was right when he said that your 
198 


An Unfinished Divorce. 

nerves were unstrung. You know very well that 
you can trust me. But I insist that Milovitch 
pay his debt.” 

With a furious glance Nicholas threw himself 
on the couch and turned his face to the wall. 
“Give him his money,” he said. 

“Here it is,” and Milovitch handed Arthur a 
hundred franc note. 

“Good-bye. I have gotten what I came for.” 
Masoushka followed him into the hall. 

“Be careful, dear,” she whispered as he caught 
her in his arms and kissed her, “Nicholas is 
growing jealous. His suspicions are aroused and 
he sometimes frightens me by his violence.” 

“My own love,” he said as he pressed her head 
against his heart, “‘you are mine, for after last 
night nothing can separate us.” 

“But you understood what Milovitch im- 
plied?” 

Arthur laughed gently. “To-night, dearest,” 
and he lowered his voice to the merest whisper, 
“Nicholas, as you heard, will be absent. I will 
come for you as soon as I am free. It will be 
morning before he returns. You can easily slip 
back in time. There is no danger,” he hastened 
to assure her as he noted her undecided look, 
“will you come?” 


199 


An Unfinished Divorce. 

For answer she held up her lips for him to 
kiss. 

“What were you saying to Arthur ?” snarled 
Nicholas as she re-entered the room. “I thought 
that you were never coming back.” 

“I was only showing him to the door.” 

“You were a deucedly long while opening and 
closing a door. Look here, I will have no non- 
sense. Tell me, what were you talking about?” 

“About nothing, except that he was asking me 
to keep you from drinking so much. I did not 
wish to tell you, for I knew it would annoy 
you, and Milovitch has already said the same 
thing. I told him not to worry, that you knew 
what you were about.” 

“He takes too damn much interest in us,” mut- 
tered Nicholas. He raised his head and let it 
fall again with a groan. “You be careful or 
you will get into trouble with me.” 

“Leave the girl alone,” broke in Milovitch, 
“she is all right, but try and get yourself to- 
gether. Wassily is very anxious to see you. He 
is organizing a plot,” here he lowered his voice 
so that he could not have been heard a yard 
away, “to blow up the winter palace, so try to 
get yourself together.” 

“Very well. I will make an effort. Come, 
200 


An Unfinished Divorce. 

Masoushka, bring me mj things.” 

She brought him his clothes and helped him 
put them on. When he was ready to go out, “you 
will be back for supper?” she asked. 

“Yes, we will have time to eat before I start. 
Meet me in the usual place at seven o’clock. I 
am going out for a walk to get some fresh air.” 

As soon as Milovitch and the girl were alone, 
he began, “Masoushka, you had better look out. 
Nicholas is growing suspicious. I wonder 
he has not noticed your infatuation before.” 

She shrugged her shoulders. “What if he is 
suspicious?” she asked. “He has no claim on 
me. Freely we united and freely we shall sep- 
arate. There is no marriage to gall us with its 
heavy chain.” 

He shook his head. “I am an old man and 
have seen much, and believe me, when I say that 
it is not the ceremony that makes the marriage 
tie, nor even that which the civil law terms con- 
cuhitus nor even the consensus ; but it is the 
constant communion and contact, physical and 
mental. You are united by no legal bond, but 
you have lived together now for several years. 
You have had common interests and common 
troubles and have been in continual association 
with the same objects. The same sounds produce 
201 


An Unfinished Divorce. 


the same thoughts, the same odors recall the 
same events. Again I say be careful. The links 
that attach you to Nicholas are stronger than you 
think, as you may find out to your cost.” 

The girl turned her back and picking up a 
piece of sewing was soon absorbed in her task. 


202 


X. 


When the guests had departed Jean proceeded 
to prepare himself for the ride to St. Leger 
which he had arranged for. “It seems to me,” 
said Berthe, when he came to bid her good-bye, 
“that you might find something better to do than 
to go around speaking to everyone of our 
affairs, as you did to the Abbe Moulin.” 

“Have you never spoken to anyone on the sub- 
ject?” he asked. 

“That is my business,” she replied, “I suppose 
that you are now going to discuss it with Madame 
de Muriel.” 

“And if I do, I cannot see the harm. As for 
the Abbe Moulin, he is an old friend. I consider 
it most natural that I should have spoken to 
him and I certainly shall say only kind things 
of you to Madame de Muriel.” 

“I understand you. You think by saying nice 
things of me to turn sympathy in your favor. 
It is just like you to attempt to destroy my repu- 
tation after having made me miserable for 
203 


An Unfinished Divorce. 

years. Do not forget that this evening we are to 
dine with your old mistress, Juliette de Tourville. 
Be back in time to dress. I do not wish to be 
kept waiting.” 

The rain of the day before had softened the 
roads, making them very agreeable for riding, 
and it was with a feeling of real pleasure that 
Jean found himself once more, his favorite 
horse between his knees, trotting along the fam- 
iliar roads. The animal was excited by that 
touch of sharpness in the air which comes with 
the first fall of snow on the mountains and pulled 
eagerly against the curb. The wind had fallen 
and the columns of smoke from the piles of 
burning leaves ascended vertically in the still 
air. Prom the meadows sounded the melodious 
tinkling of cowbells. On the branches of the 
oaks still clung the thick brown rustling leaves, 
but the knobby gnarled limbs of the sycamores 
which bordered the road, were almost bare. 

On the lawns of handsomely planted country 
places the bright reds and yellows of the orna- 
mental shrubs shone against the dark green 
of the laurels. Here and there a hunter ap- 
peared, lazily wandering across the fields in 
search of the elusive hare, his gun over his 


204 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


shoulder and preceded by his dog. After half 
an hour’s steady trot he turned to the left and 
mounted a steep road which led to the gate of 
Monsieur de Muriel’s property of St. Leger. 

The chateau was noted far and wide for the 
incomparable view which it commanded, for the 
beauty of its gardens and for the manuscripts 
and art treasures which it contained. Built 
under Louis XV., by a banker who had enriched 
himself at the time of Law’s bubble, it had come 
into the possession of the present owner’s family 
through a marriage. 

At the end of the long avenue of mighty oaks, 
whose beauty always aroused his admiration, 
Jean drew rein. As he dismounted and 
handed his bridle to the groom who had come 
running from the neighboring stable, he could 
catch glimpses of the sunken gardens with their 
masses of richly toned chrysanthemums, with 
here and there a late blooming rose. 

He mounted the broad flight of steps and rang 
the bell. “Is Madame at home?” he inquired of 
the footman who opened the door. At the af- 
firmative reply he followed the servant across 
the hall into the salon. 

Many portraits hung upon the walls of this 
room, prominent among which was that of 
205 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


Voltaire. It had been presented to Monsieur de 
Muriel’s ancestor by the Patriarch of Fernex 
himself. The witty cynical face which looked 
down from the old gold frame was a never 
ceasing source of pleasure to Jean. As he stood 
contemplating it, Madame de Muriel entered. 

“Madame allow me to kiss your hand,” he 
said bowing, as he raised her fingers to his lips. 

“Come, Jean, sit down by me on the sofa and 
tell me about your voyage,” she replied. 

Madame de Muriel was that most perfect of 
all beings — a beautiful woman, who making 
friends of her advancing years had grown old 
gracefully. Her hair was snow white and her 
pink complexion was as fresh as a young girl’s. 
Her dark blue eyes, in which still glowed much 
of the fire of youth, shone from beneath penciled 
eyebrows. The lines at the corners of her sensi- 
tive mouth spoke of deep suffering patiently 
borne, but her expression was serene. Her 
shoulders were covered with a scarf of Flemish 
point, held in place by a diamond brooch. Her 
youthful figure was set off by a dark lavender 
gown. 

When Jean had finished, “So you have had 
rather an exciting time of it, have you not?” she 
said in a low, gentle voice, “and you must be glad 
206 


An Unfinished Divorce. 


to be home once more. You have such a charm- 
ing family. I really do not understand how you 
can leave them.” 

“Madame,” said Jean, “you have always been 
so sweet and dear to me,” and he took her soft 
hand in his, “that I am going to ask you a ques- 
tion. Do you mind?” 

“Surely not, Jean. If it is anything that I 
can and may tell you I will do so,” she replied, 
a note of astonishment in her voice. 

“Have you heard any rumors about Berthe 
and Arthur Bornier?” 

She hesitated. “They have been seen together 
a great deal these last few months,” she replied 
at length. 

“Has anyone placed an unkind construction 
on this intimacy?” He arose and paced about 
the room, his hands behind his back. 

“Never that I have heard of. People think 
her very imprudent, that is all. I do not wish 
to say anything unkind, but his reputation is 
very bad.” 

He halted for a moment. “She is going to 
divorce me.” 

“I am so sorry. Can I do nothing to help you? 
Calm yourself and sit down.” 

“It is hard to have my home broken up in 
207 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


this way — by such a scamp as Arthur Bornier.” 

“I am sure of one thing, : ” said the old lady, 
“Berthe respects herself too much to have been 
untrue to her vows.” 

“Of that I am as sure as you are. If I were 
not, my proceedings would have been much more 
energetic.” 

“Jean, I am an old lady and I have known 
you ever since you were born. You have not 
acted as you should towards your wife. I speak 
plainly. I realize as well as you do her short- 
comings, but then you are a man and instead 
of having allowed yourself to be blown hither 
and thither you should have been strong and 
firm for the two. A woman wants to be led and 
she would submit to anything rather than neg- 
lect. In her husband she seeks a protector and 
a lover. In default of one she will content her- 
self with the other — but one she must have. 

“Let your wife feel that your hand is ever 
ready to defend her, that your strength will be 
a shield for her weakness, and then, even if you 
fall, she will never waver in her allegiance. Or 
be her lover, stay true to her and in spite of your 
weaknesses she will cling to you. She will re- 
gard you in the light of a child. She may not 
let you know it, but such will be her feelings, 
208 


An Unfinished Divorce. 

and she will defend you as a tigress defends her 
cubs. Pardon me, dear boy, have you been 
either of these to your wife? 

“You see, she has some excuse for her acts. 
Not that it is ever quite excusable for a woman 
with children to divorce, but think of her posi- 
tion. She has loved you deeply, as you know, and 
now she in turn wants to be loved. Love wears 
itself away against the stone of indifference — 
even the greatest love. You remember the le- 
gend of the Roc, how he comes every thousand 
years and rubs his beak, once only, against an 
immense mountain of granite. Some day, oh, 
not to-morrow, or the day after, but some day, 
that mountain will be worn away. 

“So it is with love, even the love a mother 
bears the father of her children. It seems so 
great that it overshadows everything. It seems 
eternal. But, nevertheless, indifference and 
neglect will finally do what one great blow could 
never have done.” She ceased and laid her hand 
upon his bowed head. 

“If I had only confided in you before ” he 
said. “If I had only spoken to you! Can you 
see no hope?” 

“I am afraid not. Unless something should 
happen which we cannot now foresee. Berthe’s 
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An Unfinished Divorce. 


mind is made up. Poor girl, I pity her. Jean, 
you must face your troubles like a man. I can 
tell you now,” she continued, “I have seen Ber- 
the. Some weeks ago she spoke to me about 
this divorce. I besought her to remember her 
children and forgive you. I even told her 
what I had never before breathed to any living 
being and which I will now tell you. A few 
words will describe what was to me an eternity 
of suffering. I trust you, Jean, to keep my con- 
fidence sacred.” She paused a moment and then 
began. 

“I loved my husband deeply. You know how 
good and kind he is, how honorable and truth- 
ful. One day I discovered he loved my sister. 
I found them together. Oh, the agonies that I 
endured. I locked myself in my room and 
prayed God to end my life. Just to think, Jean, 
in an instant all was taken from me — my sister 
and my husband. I had loved them deeply and 
they had betrayed me. In my first sorrow and de- 
spair, forgetting my children, I swore that I 
would be revenged — that I would divorce and 
forever rid myself of a man who had proved un- 
worthy. But God in His mercy saved me from 
this sin. I fell seriously ill, and when I re- 
covered, I found my poor sister, my poor 
210 


An Unfinished Divorce. 


Amelie had been killed by a fall from her horse. 
Then I forgave Pierre. 

“I realized that in such a contract a third 
party intervenes — even God — that marriage was 
not a simple agreement by two people to live 
together, but a sacred bond; that no violation 
of the compact by either could release the other. 

“Then there was my family. New lives had 
been brought into being, things could never be 
as they had been: others were interested in our 
tie. So, as I said, I forgave. And God has 
blessed me, oh, much more than I deserve. 
Pierre has come back to me and hand in hand 
we walk down the road of life in the golden twi- 
light of old age, and every day I thank God that 
I obeyed my good angel’s voice.” 

“Did you tell all this to Berthe?” asked Jean 
much affected. 

“Yes,” she replied, “but the experience of old 
age teaches no one.” And she shook her head. 
“But here comes Pierre. He will be glad to see 
you.” 

As she spoke, Monsieur de Muriel, attired in 
rough clothes, as befitted the country, walked 
into the room. In one hand he held a pipe, 
the other he extended to Jean. “Glad to see 
you, my boy,” he said ; “so you kept your prom- 
211 


An Unfinished Divorce. 


ise. It is too bad you did not get back in time 
for the vendanges. It was an excellent year. 
Good wine and plenty of it.” 

“How does your friend Lacroix, the vine- 
yard-owning prohibition agitator, like this? I 
suppose he feels placed between two fires.” 

“Damn those temperance people. Pardon me, 
my dear,” and he turned to his wife, “I quite 
lose my temper when I think of them — they 
ought all to be hanged, especially such a cant- 
ing, pietistic old hypocrite as Lacroix. Will 
you excuse us, I want Jean to come into the 
library to see that manuscript that I was tell- 
ing you about. The pastor Poirier is already 
there.” 

“Certainly,” she replied. “Come and see me 
soon again, Jean. Have courage and face your 
troubles like a man.” 

“Those temperance cranks are such fools,” 
Mauriel said, as he led the way to the library. 
“They cannot see that the most progressive coun- 
tries are those that drink the most. Look at 
Turkey, filled with the worshippers of Allah, 
who do not know what a glass of wine is. Are 
they the world’s leaders, tell me? Then look at 
Germany, France and England, and even ©ur 
tiny Switzerland. We are total abstainers, are 
212 


An Unfinished Divorce . 

we not? And we are away behind the times, I 
suppose?” 

“But you must admit,” said Jean laughingly, 
as they entered the library, “that alcohol does 
a great deal of harm. How do you do, Mon- 
sieur le Pasteur,” he added, turning to that gen- 
tleman who had risen at their approach. 

Of almost dwarfish stature, his face was clean 
shaven, except for the short gray side-whiskers 
which ornamented his sheep-like countenance. 
His stooping shoulders, covered by a black frock 
coat, were powdered with dandruff, and his low 
cut, spotted, greasy waistcoat disclosed a soiled 
white lawn bow tie. “Very well, I thank you,” 
Monsieur des Ormes,” replied the clergyman. 
“Monsieur de Muriel, I have been thinking while 
sitting here surrounded by the records of your 
illustrious family — what a great thing it is to 
have ancestors.” 

“It would be if one were sure of really hav- 
ing them,” replied Monsieur de Muriel. “Are 
you not aware that most pedigrees are neces- 
sarily false?” he added, as he read the look of 
interrogation in the pastor’s face. 

“How is that? I am aware that some are 
false, but yours is surely true. It is an histor- 
ical fact.” 


213 


An Unfinished Divorce. 


“I could tell that better if I had been the 
confessor of all my ancestresses. You see,” he 
explained, “in our family we have about twenty 
generations. If one of the twenty wives that 
this implies has been untrue, the whole genea- 
logy is false. One in twenty, that is five per 
cent, and surely you must admit that my claim 
that five per cent of wives are unfaithful, is not 
exaggerated. What do you think? But Jean 
and I were discussing alcohol, and I maintain 
that the good it does is greatly underestimated.” 

“I, myself, am not averse to an occasional 
glass,” said the clergyman, “but I am afraid that 
we are too apt to abuse what would otherwise 
be one of God’s best gifts. ‘Wine which maketh 
glad the heart of man.’ ” 

“That last text states the truth,” approved 
Muriel. “Wine is the poor man’s luxury. We 
can work with the hope of buying automobiles 
and diamonds for our wives and sweethearts. 
I am sure that even the pastor here is saving to 
buy a rope of pearls for the Prima Ballerina. 
Do not blush, it is nothing to be ashamed of. 
But what more has the poor man than his wine? 
Deprive him of this and he will not work half 
so hard.” 

“The proof of which statement,” cut in Jean, 
214 


An Unfinished Divorce. 

“is that the missionaries find it necessary to give 
the savages a taste for gin and teach them the 
use of gunpowder before being able to civilize 
and Christianize them.” 

The pastor looked from one to the other, in- 
comprehension written on his countenance. 
“And,” continued Muriel, “alcohol eliminates 
the weak. The man whose character is not suffi- 
ciently forceful to resist the temptation of too 
frequent tippling dies young and his descend- 
ants, if he has any, tend to disappear in the third 
generation. The law of the survival of the 
strong and the suppression of the feeble. War 
has latterly become very infrequent in Europe — 
war, the great eliminator of the unfit — and the 
consumption of alcohol has enormously increased. 
Gin shops have replaced the battlefield. 

“Nature is bound in the long run to have her 
way. The weak must make way for the strong. 
It is the universal law which, though we may 
change its mode of expression, we cannot abol- 
ish. But, excuse me,” he added, “I must show 
the doctor what he has come to see.” 

“I would be much obliged if you would,” said 
the clergyman. 

The room in which they were conversing was 
broad and long, its walls lined with bookcases 
215 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


reaching to the ceiling and filled with books, 
many of them in eighteenth century bindings, 
and some of an even earlier period. Muriel led 
the way towards a safe built in one of the walls. 
He drew a large key from his pocket and in- 
serted it in the lock. 

“Let me see,” he said, “I believe it was that 
comedy of your arch enemy .Voltaire that you 
wished to see, is it not? By the way, doctor,” he 
continued, as he pulled open a drawer filled 
with precious manuscripts, “speaking of Vol- 
taire, makes me think of the prayer attributed to 
the Genevese clergy of his time, ‘Oh, God, if you 
exist have mercy on my soul if I possess one/ 
Non-commital gentlemen your predecessors, were 
they not?” 

In the safe, which now stood open before them, 
was contained, as historians well knew, a unique 
collection of documents. Here were autograph 
letters of Calvin and of Aggripa d’Aubigne and 
of many other notables of the time of the Re- 
formation. Although Muriel had never con- 
sented to their publication, here hidden away 
were writings bearing on the trial of Servetus 
which threw new lights on this much discussed 
question. 

Here also were descriptions by eye witnesses 
216 


tin Unfinished Divorce. 


of the death of Calvin, explaining the nature of 
the mysterious, some say shameful, disease 
which carried him off. Two autograph letters 
of the great Elizabeth of England and three of 
Henry IV of France were here. But what could 
be of greater interest than the letters of Jean 
Jacques Rousseau, annotated by Voltaire? In 
one drawer lay an almost complete pack of cards, 
on which the philosopher had written to his near 
neighbors, the Muriels, inquiring, amongst other 
things, as to their health and as to the proper 
care of fig trees. While their host was looking 
for the comedy, the other two entered into con- 
versation. 

“Did you have a pleasant voyage, Monsieur 
des Ormes?” asked Poirier in an unctuous voice. 

“Yes. I enjoyed myself immensely.” 

“Did you, may I ask, come in contact with 
any missionaries?” 

“I had the pleasure of meeting quite a num- 
ber, both Protestant and Catholic.” 

“I suppose that you will be prejudiced, but 
how did they compare as to the results of their 
ministrations?” 

“They were most excellent men, although not 
of an extremely high order of intelligence. The 
principal difference I noticed was that our 
217 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


priests lived with their people and made them- 
selves one with their flocks, whereas the Pro- 
testant pastors, accompanied as they were by 
their wives and children, necessarily placed a 
certain distance between themselves and the na- 
tives. They appeared, especially the English, 
with their tennis and their afternoon tea, to 
have planted a piece of Europe in the midst of 
the wilderness.” 

The pastor reflected a moment. “There is cer- 
tainly truth in what you say, my young friend, 
but then I do not believe in the celibacy of the 
clergy. It is against human nature. It is im- 
possible to observe.” 

“Since you have introduced the subject, let 
me remark that you are still a young man and 
yet you have been a widower for the last twenty 
years. How, may I ask, have you managed?” 

The clergyman did not know exactly whether 
to be vexed or pleased at this allusion to his 
vigor, but fortunately the necessity of a reply 
was obviated by Muriel. 

“Here is what I have been looking for,” said 
the latter, as he held up a manuscript in copy- 
book form, “and here is the letter of Monsieur de 
Voltaire to my great-grandmother which accom- 
panied it.” 


218 


An Unfinished Divorce . 

The clergyman seized the document and de- 
voured it with greedy eyes. “Voltaire,” ex- 
plained their host to Jean, “was at this time ex- 
iled from Paris and the Genevese authorities 
would not allow theatrical performances on the 
soil of the Republic. Consequently, he built a 
theatre in his chateau of Fernex. The aristoc- 
racy of Geneva were invited to attend the rep- 
resentations, for the actors were chiefly chosen 
from their midst. My great-grandmother al- 
ways filled one of the principal roles. On one 
occasion, not having received her lines, she wrote 
to Fernex, asking that they be sent to her. You 
see by this letter that Voltaire replied that he 
was sorry, but on account of the absence of his 
secretary he could not furnish her with a clean 
copy. With many excuses he begged leave to 
send the play as he had written it; and here it 
is.” 

It was growing late and as the others were 
about to plunge into a learned discussion of the 
text, Jean prepared to take his departure. “Will 
you not stay to dinner,” asked Muriel hospit- 
ably. 

“I am much obliged to you, but we are dining 
to-night with Madame de Tourville. Please say 
good-bye for me to Madame de Muriel.” 

219 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


“I am sorry that you cannot stay. Some other 
time, then. Come soon, and bring Berthe.” 
When Jean had left the room the pastor ad- 
dressed Muriel. 

“He is very intelligent, but rather imperti- 
nent. There are also rumors of trouble between 
him and his wife. It is a pity that he should be 
entangled in the errors of Rome. What he needs 
is more of this,” and he drew a greasy Bible from 
his pocket and laid it on the table beside Vol- 
taire'S manuscript. 


220 


XI. 


Tourville, at whose house Jean and Berthe 
were dining that Sunday evening, was an intel- 
lectual and equine dilettante. His library was 
filled with unread books and his stable with un- 
ridden horses. But he was withal, a clever 
writer and a good horseman. His married life 
had been a happy one. There were to be sure 
rumors that the pearls of the premiere danseuse 
of the opera were his gift, but no one knew for a 
certainty. 

Of all her sex Madame de Tourville was cer- 
tainly the most charming. When a smile un- 
locked the mischievous curve of her red lips, 
there were disclosed two rows of tiny, even 
pearly teeth and a pointed tongue, pink like a 
young animaPs. Her face was framed by brown 
hair, the high lights picked out in gold. Art 
stepping in had added to her supreme beauty by 
relieving with a faint blush of color the excessive 
paleness of her dead-white complexion. Of 
medium height, the lines of her figure were 
221 


An Unfinished Divorce. 


classically pure. What so few women possess 
were hers in all their perfection: well molded 
arms. Add to this, charming manners, grace of 
movement and kindness of heart, and it was no 
wonder that she was universally liked even by 
her fellow-women. There was just enough scan- 
dal connected with her name to make her inter- 
esting and to give the gossips a chance. This 
talk concerned the paternity of Paulette, her 
only child, now ten years old. By some it was 
attributed to Jean, but this was indignantly de- 
nied by others. 

The Tourville house, as were many others 
in that old quarter of the town, was built 
around a court, to which access was had 
through one of those porte coclieres erected 
in the reign of Louis XV., to the great scandal 
of the Puritans of that day. “The devil will 
drive through them into the midst of our 
homes,” they used to say. The interior was most 
sumptuously decorated, and was a veritable 
museum of authentic furniture in the styles of 
the Empire of Louis XVI and of Louis XV. 
Tourville for illuminating purposes had retained 
the old fashioned wax candles. He realized that 
no light ever invented was half so flattering and 
mellow. Youth by its rays is rendered more 
222 


An Unfinished Divorce . 

beautiful and the harsh lines of old age are 
softened. 

The salon into which Jean and Berthe were 
introduced was of the purest Louis XY. A 
Louis XY of the reign of that king himself, and 
not one of those bastard styles, degraded rococo 
combined with art moderne, that so often of- 
fends one’s eyes. Against the walls were gigan- 
tic gilt bronze brackets, each containing fifty 
blazing candles. In the panels hung family por- 
traits; syndics, ministers of the Gospel and 
soldiers. 

The Tourvilles had been an important family 
in the annals of the ancient republic. Magis- 
trates and ambassadors in great number had 
been counted amongst its members. Many of 
its sons had laid down their lives for the freedom 
of their city — many of its daughters had ming- 
led their tears with the blood oozing from glor- 
ious wounds. In the Swiss regiments of foreign 
armies they had also won renown. There had 
scarcely been a field of battle for the last three 
hundred years which had not witnessed the death 
of a Tourville. 

Madame de Tourville came forward to meet 
Jean and Berthe with that gliding, sinuous walk 
which indicates the highly feminine woman. 

223 


An Unfinished Divorce. 


The feet close to the ground, a slight movement 
of the hips, a scarcely perceptible swing of the 
body below the waist. “Good evening, Berthe. 
You must be pleased to have Jean back again,” 
she said. 

“It is the duty, I suppose, of a good wife to 
rejoice at her husband’s return,” Berthe re- 
plied. 

Madame de Tourville hastened to change the 
conversation. “Was your trip successful, Jean?” 

“Very,” he replied. “You must come and see 
the skins and feathers I brought back to Berthe. 
They are magnificent, are they not?” he contin- 
ued, addressing his wife. 

“I suppose they are,” she replied shortly. 

Over by the fireplace, in which two or three 
logs were burning brightly, Tourville was talk- 
ing to Madame Versovitch. She had been 
forced by the revolution to flee from her estates 
in Russia. “Just think,” she was saying, “what 
awful people those peasants are. When the 
troubles broke out we sent for ours to learn 
their sentiments, and to assure ourselves of their 
fidelity. There has never been any difficulty be- 
tween us, has there?’ asked my husband. ‘We 
have always been good masters and helped you 
when you were in need?’ Wes,’ replied their 
224 


An Unfinished Divorce. 


spokesman, ‘we have nothing to reproach you 
with.’ ‘Then you do not intend burning and 
destroying as has been done on so many pro- 
perties?’ ‘What do you take us for? For mon- 
sters of ingratitude? No indeed. But,’ con- 
fided the spokesman, ‘we have arranged with 
Count Barnoff’s peasants to destroy his chateau, 
and his peasants are coming here to destroy 
yours.’ And they carried out their arrange- 
ment,” she added. 

“Madame is served,” announced the butler. 
The dark oak wainscotted walls of the dining 
room were lighted by the wax candles that Tour- 
ville loved, and the lights on the table were cur- 
tained by rose colored shades. The centre-piece 
consisted of an immense cut glass bowl, filled 
with pink roses, resting on a chased tray of old 
silver. From this radiated lines of delicately 
tinted sweet peas, also pink, placed directly on 
the white cloth. The women’s faces were beau- 
tified by the yellow diffused light of the wax 
candles reflected from the pink of the flowers. 
Behind a screen of palms the Bernadino’s orches- 
tra was softly playing selections from the 
modern operas. 

“So here you are once more, back again,” said 
Madame de Tourville to Jean, who was seated 
225 


An Unfinished Divorce, 

at her right, “I can hardly believe that it was 
over a year ago that you left us.” 

“Yes, time flies, there is no mistake about 
that. I do not mind increasing age so much, for 
I feel that with every year I learn better to play 
the game of life. However, there is so much to 
be enjoyed that I am afraid my time will be up 
before I have seen and experienced everything.” 

“Your voyages are over for the time at any 
rate, are they not?” she asked. 

“I am afraid that my stay here will be of 
short duration,” he replied. 

“You do not intend leaving us so soon again?” 
she said, softly. 

It was long since everything had ceased be- 
tween them. He had learnt the secret of retain- 
ing the friendship of his former mistress and the 
love of these two had been converted into a 
tender mutual interest. “You owe it to your 
friends to stay with them a while, now that you 
are back,” she finished. 

“I am afraid, Juliette, that would be be- 
yond my powers. After dinner I will explain. 
It concerns you as well as me.” She paled 
slightly. “Is it about Paulette?” she whispered. 
He nodded. 

Hidden from their view by the massed up roses 
226 


An Unfinished Divorce. 


of the centre-piece, Berthe was talking to Arthur. 
“What a strange man Boula is” she was saying. 
“I wonder what he is and where he came from. 
Where did you meet him?” 

“He seems to have made an impression on you, 
but you must not take his goings on too seri- 
ously.” 

“Is he a fraud then, do you think? You ought 
to have told me so before, if you thought it.” 

“By no means. The only idea I meant to con- 
vey was that you should not let his sayings or 
*his actions prey on you. All religious leaders 
exaggerate.” 

“I think I heard you mention the name of 
Boula. You mean, I suppose, Boula Omayat?” 
said Madame Versovitch, from across the table. 

“Yes,” answered Berthe, “that is whom I 
mean. Why do you ask?” 

“I rather suspect that he is a countryman of 
mine. That is all I can tell you. He certainly 
is a mysterious character.” 

“An old impostor, I should think,” broke in 
Maurice, who happened to be seated at Berthe’s 
other hand. 

“What makes you say that?” she asked. “Do 
you know anything against him?” 

“Nothing, except one thing, and that I am 
227 


An Unfinished Divorce. 

not at liberty to repeat,” said he, looking at 
Arthur. 

“You should not venture statements that you 
are not prepared to substantiate, either because 
you cannot or do not wish to.” With this cut- 
ting remark she turned towards Arthur. Mau- 
rice smiled. 

Opposite to them, at Madame Verso vitch’s 
left, sat Jules Servignac, commonly known as 
the “death cheater.” The origin of this appella- 
tion was curious. Possessed of a small fortune, 
Servignac was taken seriously ill at the age of 
twenty-three. The doctors whom he consulted in- 
formed him that his was an incurable disease and 
that he had but two years to live. He determined 
that if his life was to be short it would at any 
rate be a merry one. At the end of the two years 
he found that the profession had been mistaken, 
that all traces of his illness had disappeared, 
and that — he was penniless. It was probably 
the best thing that could have happened, for, 
forced to earn his living, he turned his attention 
towards a literary career in which he gained a 
fair measure of success. “Have you heard,” 
asked this gentleman in a solemn voice, “that 
all is over between Murier and Madame Naud- 
ler?” 


228 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


“You do not mean to tell me that?” said 
Berthe. “Why that affair has been going on for 
years.” 

“I heard the same rumor,” said Maurice, “and 
from what they tell me Murier has acted dis- 
gracefully. He had practically supported her 
and her child ever since her husband died and 
now without warning he deserts her. By the 
way,” he continued, addressing Arthur, “he is 
one of your friends.” 

“He is one of my most intimate ones. I con- 
sider that he has acted quite properly, and can 
only blame him for not having given her up long 
ago. I am glad to see that he has at last remem- 
bered his duty toward his wife and family.” 

“How few men do this,” sighed Berthe. 

“You are quite right, Madame,” said the ‘death 
cheater/ solemnly. 

“But you forget,” insisted Maurice, “that he 
had other duties as well. He should at least 
have made some provision for her.” 

“And thus have robbed his family after hav- 
ing neglected them for years,” said Arthur. 

“Bornier,” said Maurice, indignantly, “are you 
not aware that there are some obligations as 
sacred as those the law imposes upon us? I or 
any other honorable man would pay my gamb- 
229 


An Unfinished Divorce. 

ling debts before I would my tailor’s bill. And 
why? Simply because my opponent at play lias 
no redress against me in law, w T hereas my tailor 
has. Apply the same reasoning to your mistress. 
She has confided in your honor and your debt 
to her is a sacred one; in some respects more so 
even than the one due your wife.” A lull had 
occurred in the conversation, and Maurice’s 
homily had been listened to by all. 

“I quite agree with Maurice,” said Jean to 
Madame de Tourville. “You may be sure that 
I always pay my gambling debts before my 
tailor’s bill. However, I generally manage to 
pay both.” 

“Thank you, Jean. Let us hope that you will 
always be equally fortunate,” said Juliette un- 
der cover of the general conversation, which had 
been resumed. 

“What strange ideas Paquis has,” protested 
Berthe to Arthur. 

Maurice turned toward Madame Moron, his 
other neighbor. Madeleine Moron was a gay 
widow, who admitted that she was thirty, whose 
friends suggested forty, and whose enemies in- 
sinuated forty-five. Neutrals took the average 
and fixed on thirty-eight. Fat and fair she was, 
with peroxide blonde hair, an exuberant bosom 
230 


An Unfinished Divorce. 


and dazzling white teeth, both of which latter 
charms she took every occasion of exhibiting. 
Her complexion was of a deep rose, her lips red- 
dened by cosmetics. Her gown, excessively 
decollete was cut d la princesse, and her corset 
was as tightly laced as the combined efforts of 
herself and maid could contrive. With the hor- 
rible cunning of her tribe she had noticed 
Maurice’s dislike for Bornier, and had seized 
upon it as an angler seizes on a worm. “Why 
do people invite that man,” she said in a low 
voice. “He is thoroughly declass^. He was 
scarcely invited anywhere until Berthe took him 
up.” 

“I suppose then that it is on her account that 
he is invited,” answered Maurice smiling. 
“What a lovely dress you have on this evening. 
It is so becoming.” • 

She flushed with pleasure and became even 
pinker than before. She sighed, and the seams 
of her gown creaked and the bones of her corset 
groaned. “I am glad you like it, and it must 
be pretty if you say it : you have such good taste. 
Are you going to the restaurant des Quais after 
dinner?” 

“Yes, Madame Rondin asked me. I suppose 
that it will be a debauche as usual.” 

231 


An Unfinished Divorce. 


“Yes, Madame, they are flocking here in great 
numbers,” Tourville was saying to Madame Ver- 
sovitch. “They are becoming a public danger. 
I do not wonder that your government is scan- 
dalized at the hospitality shown them.” 

“These Nihilists are not all as bad as you 
think,” broke in Arthur. “There are some ex- 
tremely distinguished men among them, whom 
I am pleased to call my friends.” 

“That of course is a matter of taste,” the lady 
said, in her soft slav accent. “Have you ever 
met a man named Milovitch? If you have I 
would warn you against him.’ 

“Milovitch? I never heard the name before,” 
replied Arthur. 

“They say he is hiding in Geneva. He is a 
renegade priest, a man of the highest intelli- 
gence. He was one of the ringleaders of the 
revolution in my province, and shortly before 
our house was burned he looted the local bank 
and disappeared with a large sum. If he is 
caught he will be extradited.” 

“If I have met him I should not know it, for 
he would scarcely have told me his real name.” 

“No, do not talk to me of woman’s rights,” 
Jean was saying to Madame de Tourville. “God 
gave us women for our pleasure, but we, through 
232 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


our stupidity and weakness, are rapidly turning 
them into our greatest curse.” 

“Surely not your greatest curse,” she said. 

“Maybe I exaggerate, perhaps there is some 
good in them, but we do not know how to bring 
it out. You know I love them dearly, perhaps 
too dearly,” he admitted. They were silent for a 
moment, thinking of the past. Then, as dinner 
w T as finished, Juliette caught her husband’s eye 
and gave the signal to rise. 

They entered the salon. “What was it you 
had to say to me?” Juliette asked hurriedly of 
Jean, who stood before her, his coffee cup in his 
hand. 

“Wait until your husband has gone into the 
smoking room, and then I will tell you.” Then, 
in a louder voice, but still so low as not to be 
heard by the others, he said “Berthe is going to 
divorce me.” 

“Has it come to that?” she asked. “Do you 
know why?” 

“Everything has its occasion as well as its 
cause. The occasion is what she terms my notor- 
ious infidelity, the cause is — well, I have my sus- 
picions.” 

“He that goes hunting must expect to lose 
his place. Look over there.” He followed the 
233 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


direction of her glance, until his eye rested on 
Berthe and Arthur, seated on a sofa in a dis- 
tant corner, conversing in low tones. 

“So you think as I do.” 

“I would not stand for it,” she said. “Why 
do you not do something?” He picked up a 
miniature of Paulette lying on the table near 
where ha stood and studied it. He laid it down 
when his host, who had silently approached, 
placed a hand on his shoulder. “Come along, 
Jean,” he said gaily, “and stop your flirting with 
my wife. We are going into the library to smoke 
a cigar.” 

“I will follow you in a moment. Your wife 
and I were having a discussion, and I wish to 
finish my argument.” When Tourville and the 
other men had left the room Juliette led the way 
to the small salon. “Quick, tell me what has 
happened,” she said. He leant towards her. 
“Juliette,” he answered, “I am powerless. 
Otherwise I would soon put an end to Bornier. 
Berthe has threatened to cite you by name as 
co-respondent if I do the first thing to defend 
myself. And,” he continued, “you know I alw T ays 
pay my gambling debts.” 

“She would do that! And having this in her 
heart, she comes to my house!” 

234 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


“Calm yourself, Juliette, you may rely on 
me. I must join the men or they will begin to 
wonder.” He bowed and left her. 

When he was gone, Juliette re-entered the 
salon and joined Berthe, who had not moved 
from the sofa. “Good evening, Berthe,” she said 
pleasantly. “I have been having such an inter- 
esting conversation with Jean about his voyage. 
He is most attractive.” 

“I have always been told that you thought so, 
and it is indeed pleasant to hear it from your 
own lips. One always likes to hear nice things 
about those one is fond of.” 

“You are quite right,” answered Juliette, pre- 
tending not to understand the allusion. “By 
the way, how well Bornier looks this evening.” 

“Whose portrait was Jean looking at when 
your husband joined you?” asked Berthe, walk- 
ing over to the table. “Ah ! It is Paulette’s, I see. 
She is about seven months younger than Marthe 
is she not? How much they resemble each other. 
They might be sisters.” 

“You and I are distant cousins, I believe, and 
I suppose that it is a reversion to some common 
ancestor. Such things happen, you know,” 
answered Juliette, who was becoming flustered. 

235 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


“The eyes and nose are very much like Jean’s 
Are you also a cousin of his?” asked Berthe, 
sarcastically. Luckily at this moment Madame 
Versovitch joined them. “You are looking at 
the picture of your Paulette? What a lovely 
child she is. I do not wonder that you are proud 
of her. But, Madame,” she addressed herself to 
Berthe, “they tell me that you see a great deal 
of Boula Omayat. I think it my duty to warn 
you. I did not wish to say so at table, but 
I have reasons for suspecting that he is no other 
than Milovitch.” 

“Thank you, Madame,” replied Berthe curtly, 
“I am much obliged to you for your kind in- 
terest.” 

“Accept or refuse my warning as you please. 
You cannot say that I have not done my duty.” 

When the men returned after smoking, Arthur 
excused himself on the plea of an important en- 
gagement. “Are you not coming to the supper?” 
asked Berthe. 

“I regret to say that I cannot. Something un- 
expected has turned up. You will forgive me?” 

“What can I do?” and she shrugged her 
shoulders. 

Shortly after Arthur’s departure Madame de 
Tourville suggested that it was time for them to 
236 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


be going to the cafe des Quais, where Madame 
Rondin was expecting them. For the conven- 
ience of her guests she had provided a station 
omnibus, which was waiting at the door to con- 
duct them to their destination. 

Through the windows of the private dining 
room, that had been engaged for the occasion at 
the restaurant des Quais, Madame Rondin was 
admiring the brilliantly illumined terrace of the 
casino, which blazed on the opposite side of the 
lake. On the arrival of her friends she flicked 
the ashes from her cigarette, placed it between 
her lips, and came forward both hands extended. 
“Jean, you ought to be ashamed of yourself, 
staying away so long. Ought he not, Berthe?” 
Then to Madame Moron, “Good evening Madame, 
how well you are looking. And here is Tour- 
ville with his fair wife. Madame Verso vitch, I 
am glad to see you. Waiter,” she called, “serve 
the cocktails.” Gradually others arrived, for the 
guests at Madame de Tourville’s dinner were not 
the only ones invited. 

The room was severely plain. A sofa for the 
use of couples when dining t£te-h-tete, the tables, 
the chair and the piano made up the list of mov- 
ables. If the tarnished gold miror hanging over 
the mantel, and spotted in a hundred places 
237 


An Unfinished Divorce. 


with the marks of champagne corks discharged 
at it by hilarious convives, could have retained 
the pictures which had been reflected in its dingy 
surface there would have been “a hot time in 
the old town to-night.” The place was full of 
memories for many of those present, and such 
looked around reflectively with half smiles on 
their lips. The springs of the old sofa had 
creaked beneath the weight of Tourville and his 
'premiere danseuse . That faded brown and gold 
wall paper had witnessed the first rendevous that 
Juliette de Tourville had granted Jean. The old 
waiter must have laughed to himself at the 
thought of the curiously assorted couples he had 
been called upon to serve. 

“Sit down,” cried the hostess, “we will not 
wait any longer. By the way, Berthe, where is 
Arthur?” She stopped and bit her lip. “Jean 
here is to your happy return,” and she held up 
her glass, which the waiter had just filled with 
champagne. The effect of the wine was soon 
noted by the increasing exhilaration of the com- 
pany. Voices were raised and cheeks became 
flushed. Gamier, who had been among the 
first to arrive, was confiding to Madame de 
Tourville, who appeared rather bored, how badly 
his divorce had made him feel, and how much 
238 


An Unfinished Divorce. 


he had loved his wife. Marrin, with his long, 
white beard, was tenderly conversing with the 
hostess. Although he had long ceased to be dan- 
gerous, he for a moment flattered himself, such 
was the effect of the generous wine, that he was 
as phenomenal a specimen as his royal double. 
Bored by his love-making, “Let us sing some- 
thing,” said Madame Rondin. She leaped on 
to a chair and thence on to the table, from which 
point of vantage she began, in her sweet soprano 
voice, that delicious melody entitled, ‘Viens 
Poupoule,’ accentuating the more interesting 
passages by smashing the glasses. The chorus 
was taken up by everyone, and the fun be- 
came fast and furious. The hours sped by 
rapidly, and it was nearly four o’clock when 
they were startled by the sound of an explosion. 

“What is that?” cried Berthe, who, annoyed 
at Arthur’s absence, was seated in a rather list- 
less attitude on the sofa. 

“Maybe it was a premature blast in the quar- 
ries of the Sal&ve,” suggested Marrin. “I hope 
that no one is injured.” With the others he 
rushed to the window, but naturally could see 
nothing. 

“We shall find out to-morrow,” cried Madame 
Rondin. “What difference does it make, any- 
239 


way? Come on,” and placing herself at the 
piano, she began a lively polka. 

“I repeat again, Juliette,” said Jean, “you may 
rely implicitly on me. I shall do all in my power 
to protect you. I shall consent to Berthe’s 
proposal, but only on the condition that no 
names shall be mentioned in the suit.” 

“Jean, you are a gentleman, and I regret noth- 
ing. I see now how well you pay your gambling 
debts.” 

“Hush,” he said. “Here comes your husband.” 


240 


XII. 


It was shortly after seven when Nicholas ap- 
peared, and the cheap restaurant in which he 
had arranged to meet Masoushka was crowded 
with short-haired women and moujiks, attired 
in the national blouse and belt. The atmos- 
phere was so smoke-laden that it was with the 
greatest difficulty, and only after searching sev- 
eral minutes, that he was able to discover his 
companion. She was awaiting him, seated at a 
table on whose food-stained cloth she was im- 
patiently drumming with her fingers. “You 
have been drinking again. You ought to be 
ashamed to get yourself into this condition, when 
you have such important work before you,” said 
the girl. With an oath he fell into the chair 
opposite her, and gazed fixedly at nothing. 

The loud talking of the other guests eliminated 
the possibility of their conversation being over- 
heard. “Well, if I have, what is that to you? 
Curse you, women, you are always interfering 
with affairs that do not concern you. 

241 


An Unfinished Divorce. 

“As you say,” she replied quietly, “it does not 
concern me. Luckily we are not married.” 

“That is true,” he said, “we are not married. 
But what of it, whoever said we were?” 

“No one ever said so, but naturally your acts 
cannot concern me as they would were we united 
by a legal bond, which fortunately does not ex- 
ist.” 

He seized her by the hand, crushing it in his 
iron grasp. “So you would leave me, would 
you?” he said fiercely, under his breath, as Mas- 
oushka uttered a sharp cry of pain. “But even 
if we are not married you will not find that so 
easy.” 

“The easiest thing in the world,” she replied, 
straightening with her other hand the fingers 
his brutality had injured. “All I have to do is 
to pack my trunk and go. There are no formali- 
ties to be observed, and you cannot have me 
brought back to the conjugal roof as the bour- 
geois do, for the good reason that with us this 
roof does not exist.” 

“You need not think that it will be as simple 
as that. I am the stronger and my will shall 
rule.” As he spoke these words, he struck the 
table a blow with his closed fist. “And you need 
not delude yourself into thinking that I will 
242 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


allow you to desert me for Arthur Bornier.” 
The girl winced. 

“If I wished to and he cared to take me I 
certainly would not allow your desires in the 
matter to interfere with me in the least,” she 
replied calmly. “What could you do?” and she 
shrugged her shoulders. 

“I could kill you both,” he said, between his 
teeth. 

“And this is your boasted liberty!” and her 
words were steeped in bitterness, “the liberty for 
which I gave up home and friends and maidenly 
modesty, and for which my poor brother is now 
suffering in Siberia! The intimidation by the 
strong of the weak, the oppression of the feeble 
by brute force. Ah, those are right who say that 
even the most galling tyranny is better than 
anarchy. You claim that women should be free 
and not the slaves of men. But better be the 
slave of a tyrant than the chattel of a monster. 
Do as you will, force will always rule, the force 
of the many against the few or the might of the 
knife and club.” 

With unsteady hand he raised his glass to his 
lips. “You are a traitor, I shall denounce you,” 
he said as he replaced it on the table. 

“You know that you are lying,” she replied in 
243 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


an emotionless voice. 

“You say that to me/’ he cried furiously. 
“You had better be careful how you arouse the 
wolf.” 

“I shall do as I please in spite of your threats. 
The threats of a drunken man are meaningless,” 
she said, tauntingly. “Waiter, bring us our sup- 
per,” she continued. 

When they had finished eating he looked at 
his watch. “It is past eight o’clock and time 
for me to be starting. I may be drunk, but I 
mean what I say. Go home and wait for me.” 

Without a word she arose and left the room. 
Her heart was full of bitterness and disappoint- 
ment as she climbed the long flights. “My life is 
like these stairs,” she thought. “I work and 
struggle, and finally, after effort and sacrifice, 
when I arrive, I find what — emptiness!” She 
threw open the door and entered the dreary 
apartment. 

Two hours passed, and then her loneliness and 
bitterness were forgotten, for he had come, 
whom she was awaiting. “Beloved,” her arms 
about Arthur’s neck, she whispered, for though 
they were alone, so sacred to her was this great 
passion which had enfolded her that she wished 
to keep it secret even from the ears of listening 
244 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


Eros. “Beloved, you liave brought with you joy 
and hope. I was lonely and sick with suffering, 
but now all is changed. I love you.” Her head 
fell against his breast as she felt his kiss in her 
neck and the soft caress of his hand. His strong 
arms alone prevented her from falling, and it 
was almost fainting that he carried her to the 
sofa. 

When Arthur first entered on his pursuit of 
Masoushka, she had appeared to him as noth- 
ing more than a desirable and attractive woman. 
His higher feelings had played no part. But 
now, lying on the couch in that haunt of crim- 
inals, she looked so girlish and so sweet, that 
his heart was stirred by the first pure emotions 
it had known for many years. He softly kissed 
her on her closed eyes. At the touch of his lips 
she raised her lids, and in her glance he read 
his fate. So much love, so much humility and 
deprecating adoration, so much sacrifice and 
ardent passion -were there revealed, that his soul 
was stirred to its profoundest depths. His past 
life of barren selfishness appeared to him in all 
its horror. 

His desire to cleanse himself of the moral filth 
with which he was bespattered, his deep-seated 
longing to wash and to be clean, told him that 
245 


An Unfinished Divorce. 


he loved, that he loved manfully and that never 
again could things be as they had been. A new 
element had entered into his moral make-up. The 
world, he was aware, would consider her as being 
unworthy even of his love. A woman, a mere 
girl, resourceless and driven from her home for 
an act which her childish fervor not only ex- 
cused, but to which it even lent a certain moral 
grandeur, she had given herself to a man to 
whom she had not been legally united. Her ig- 
norance and youth, her unwavering faith to her 
companion, until he had by his brutality driven 
her to despair, were no excuse. She was nothing 
more than an abandoned woman, and as such had 
no right to the claims or hopes which lie in every 
woman’s heart, of some day being an honored 
wife and mother. 

The irony of it all was brought home to him. 
He saw that what we call evil is nothing else 
than the energy wasted by the caged lion as he 
paces restlessly to and fro. His prison is of 
steel, ours is composed of the restraints that 
civilization imposes, is the result of conflicting 
passions and interests. Her act in a world un- 
troubled by economic rivalries would have en- 
tailed no degradation, would have troubled, 
no delicate and hardly arrived at balance of 
246 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


warring selfishnesses. 

“Masoushka,” he said, as he raised her in his 
arms. “I love you. We must never again be 
separated. I love you. My life is yours. With 
you to help me I may yet be someone.” 

“Be good to me,” she said with a look of im- 
plicit trust in her face. “I am yours, do with 
me as you will, only never leave me. I love you ; 
how I love you!” 

Then down the stairs they went slowly, hand 
in hand, to the carriage which was waiting to 
drive them to his home. 

Although Nicholas had been drinking heavily, 
he was by no means incapable of caring for him- 
self, and his step was steady as he mounted the 
trolley-car by which part of his journey was to 
be accomplished. At the first hamlet which 
lies the other side of the frontier in France, he 
descended, and having learned by a hasty glance 
at his watch that it was a few minutes after 
nine, he buried himself in the darkness of a nar- 
row lane. After a short walk the sound of 
waves lapping the rocks warned him that he was 
close to the lake. “What a cold night it is!” he 
grumbled. Taking a long pull at his flask, he 
buttoned his thick coat and raised his collar 
about his ears. The north wind or “bise” was 
247 


An Unfinished Divorce . 

whistling through the trees, and the spray was 
dashing high on the shore. 

“It will be a long and hard row, damn it! 
Damn everything, beginning with Masoushka,” 
he said, as he untied the painter by which a 
small rowboat was attached, and stepped into 
the unsteady bark. He bent to his work and 
was soon rowing straight in the teeth of the 
fierce wind. His progress was slow, it being 
no easy task to make headway against the heavy 
sea. He struggled on, soaked to the skin, in 
spite of his thick coat, by the icy w-aves, that 
seemed as if they w 7 ould overwhelm him. Fre- 
quently he was forced to stop, and devote his 
attention to the clearing of his frail craft of the 
w r ater which threatened to submerge it. The 
darkness w T as intense, broken only by the faint 
lights that shimmered in the windows of some 
farmhouse or villa, and, w r ell acquainted as he 
w 7 as wdth the shore, he w r as unable to determine 
wdth any exactness his position on the raging 
waters. At last, when almost in despair, his 
attention was attracted by the weaving of a lan- 
tern. “It must be here,” he said. He changed 
his course and row 7 ed forwards it. But now 7 he 
w’as broadside to the w 7 aves and the perils of the 
situation were vastly increased. Indeed, several 
248 


An Unfinished Divorce. 


times he thought that he was lost before he 
managed to find security in the quiet waters of 
the sheltered port. “Here, quick! take the 
painter,” he said to the man who stood silently 
on the shore, the lantern still in his hand. “I 
am nearly dead with cold and wet. Has Wassily 
arrived?” The other nodded. 

“Stay where you are,” he said, as Nicholas was 
about to leap on shore. “He has already left.” 

“Damn it!” cried Nicholas furiously, “what 
do you mean?” 

“I mean what I say,” was the unperturbed 
reply. “He arrived this morning, but was un- 
expectedly called away. He will not return un- 
til to-morrow evening. Your orders are to be 
here again to-morrow at this same time.” 

“You might have let me know and saved me 
this disagreeable trip. What does Wassily care 
— what do you care if I am drowned a dozen 
times?” 

“You are quite right; we do not care. What 
is a man’s life when the interests of the cause 
are at stake?” 

“But you might have let me know,” repeated 
Nicholas. 

“There was no sure messenger at hand and 
the risk of telephoning was too great. Enough; 

249 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


you must be going. The coast guard may pass 
at any moment.” 

With a muttered curse Nicholas put about. 
A few strokes of the oar took him clear of the 
breakwater and he was once more exposed to the 
fury of the waves. For a moment the other 
watched him struggling with the elements, then, 
turning on his heel, walked in the direction of 
the villa, whose outlines could be seen dimly 
through the trees. 

Having the wind astern, the return voyage 
was less perilous and progress was more rapid. 
Soaking wet and exhausted, Nicholas found him- 
self once more before the door of his apartment. 
“Masoushka,” he called as he entered. But 
there was no answer. “Curse you!” he shouted. 
“What are you doing? I am almost dead. Bring 
me a drink and some dry clothes. Damn you, 
hurry up!” Still silence reigned. “To hell with 
the sulky wench, she needs a good beating. I 
will cure her of her sulks,” he cried, as flinging 
open the door of the bedroom, he struck a light. 
“She is not here! Where can she be?” he cried, 
as his eyes fell on the empty bed. “Masoushka, 
Masoushka, where in hell are you?” 

Receiving no response to his calls, and by this 
time shivering with the cold he entered thelabora- 
250 


r An Unfinished Divorce. 


tory to warm himself by the stove. Finding the 
fire nearly burnt out, he raked it and heaped on 
more coal. Stripping off his wet clothes he 
threw himself on the couch, and covering him- 
self with a -blanket commenced to collect his 
scattered thoughts. 

From the bottle standing on the table at 
his hand he poured a glass of vodka. 
The fiery draught cleared his mind and he rea- 
lized what had happened. “I know,” he cried, 
suddenly, “she has betrayed me. Damn her! 
She has taken advantage of my absence and has 
gone to spend the night with Arthur. She need 
not think that she will go free,” he screamed, as 
he leapt to his feet, the white froth on his mouth 
flecked with blood from the lips he had bitten in 
his impotent fury. “I will send them both to hell, 
if I have to go there myself to do it.” He paced 
back and forth undressed and in his bare feet. 
At intervals he stopped to drain a glass of spirits. 
All night he walked in an ever increasing frenzy 
developed by rage and drink. 

Lulled into security by the belief that Nicholas 
was still with Wassily, Arthur and Masoushka 
returned about four o’clock and boldly entered 
the laboratory. “Traitress,” screamed Nich- 
olas, as he met her horrified stare. Every mus- 
251 


An Unfinished Divorce. 


cle in his naked body standing out like whip- 
cord, he struck at her with his closed fist. But 
it was Arthur, who throwing himself between 
them, received the blow, and grappled with the 
mad man. Arthur had the advantage of being 
sober, but his adversary, in addition to his vastly 
greater strength, was possessed of the force that 
delirium bestows. “Stop, stop, for God’s sake,” 
cried Masoushka, as the struggling men toppled 
to the floor, Arthur underneath. She held her 
breath as the drink-crazed fiend, grinding his 
knees into her lover’s chest, seized him by the 
neck, and with his great hairy fingers wrung his 
throat. Like a tigress she leaped upon his bare 
back and beat upon his head, but as well might 
she have beaten on a rock. Arthur’s face grew 
black and his swollen tongue protruded from his 
parched and bloody lips. She uttered a wild 
scream, and sank her teeth in the shoulder of the 
drink-crazed demon. He howled with pain, but 
not for one instant did lie relax his hold. See- 
ing her efforts vain she glanced in desperation 
around the room. The red-hot stove attracted 
her attention. As quick as thought she grasped 
the shovel, and filling it with burning coals 
hurled it on Nicholas’ naked body. With a 
scream of rage and agony he released his victim 
252 


An Unfinished Divorce . 
and turned on her. 

“Masoushka, I will send you to the devil and 
go with you/’ he cried. He lurched to the table, 
seized the bomb lying there and launched it at 
Masoushka. A frightful explosion resulted, 
wrecking the room, blowing out the walls of the 
house, and burying all beneath the ruins. 

It was this that had disturbed the gay party 
at the restaurant des Quais. 


253 


EPILOGUE. 


Arthurs tragic death, and the accompanying 
circumstances which had revealed his intrigue 
with Masoushka, had come as a profound shock 
to Berthe. The thought that she had been ex- 
ploited by an unscrupulous libertine was a se- 
vere wound to her self love. The first result had 
been to increase her anger against her husband, 
with whom she would not even speak. Hidden 
in her room she had nursed her rancor and her 
rage. Her discomfiture was increased by the 
news that Boula Omayat or Milovitch had been 
denounced to the police and extradited to Rus- 
sia. His conspiracy with Arthur to rob her, and 
the means by which he had attained his end, 
had become public property, to the great amuse- 
ment of the town. She had been wounded in 
her tenderest point — her vanity — and her spite- 
ful fury knew no bounds. 

Considering under the circumstances that his 
departure would best serve his interests, which 
opinion had been shared in by both Maurice and 
254 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


the Abb6, Jean commenced his preparations for 
a prolonged absence. A few days later, the first 
violence of her emotions having subsided, Jean 
requested Berthe’s presence m the library. 

“Berthe,” he said, “I am leaving to-night. As 
you insisted on my doing, I have explained the 
case to Maitre Bapagon. I have also given him 
the name of the lawyer who is authorized to pro- 
tect my interests. No opposition will be made 
to the granting of the divorce. On the contrary, 
my counsel has been directed to aid in every 
possible way. There is but one condition: that 
no names be mentioned. With this exception, 
everything shall be as you wish. The financial 
arrangements within the measure of my means 
shall be those which you esteem just and right. 
In this matter there are no restrictions.” 

“Thank you,” she said, in an indifferent voice. 
She accompanied him that evening to the train, 
and waited with him in his compartment until 
the guard warned her that it was time for her 
to leave. Jean’s last words were, “When you 
wish to start proceedings, notify Maitre Rapag^ 
on. He will attend to everything, but I cau- 
tion you make a price with him in advance, for, 
as is well known, his charges are exorbitant. 
The Abbe Moulin is to keep me advised as to 
255 


'An Unfinished Divorce . 


the children’s health. If you need anything 
from me, he has my address.” When the train 
was out of sight she turned and slowly walked 
towards the underground passage that led to the 
street. 

The days of their separation became weeks 
and the weeks lengthened into months and still 
her actions gave no indication of her feelings. 
From day to day she put off her visit to Maitre 
Rapagon. “There is no hurry,” she kept saying 
to herself, “I must do nothing without mature 
consideration. Not that I am weakening,” she 
hastened to reassure herself. “No, my feelings 
have not changed.” She denied herself to all 
visitors, except to her most intimate friends, and 
in the seclusion of her home devoted herself to the 
education of her children, finding in their tender 
love a solace for her wounded feelings. Never be- 
fore had she fully appreciated the joy and com- 
fort to be gotten from their innocent compan- 
ionship. 

Relieved from the incubus of an occult super- 
stition, and freed from the trammels of a foolish 
infatuation, she once more turned her thoughts to 
the religion of her youth, to the delight of the 
Abb6 Moulin. Finally the crisis came, and after 
consultation with the good Abbe, she decided to 
256 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


write to Jean. 

“Dear Jean,” she wrote. “Can you ever for- 
give me? Do not say that you have nothing to 
forgive, for you have much. In looking back 
over our lives, I can see in how many ways I 
failed to live up to what a good wife should be. I 
thought too much of amusing myself and not 
enough of my home and children. I insisted too 
much on your duties toward me and did not take 
into sufficient consideration the rights which 
were also yours. No, it is always a wife’s fault if 
she fails to keep her husband — at least as much 
her fault as his. I now see how truly you spoke 
when you said that our ties were too sacred to 
be easily broken and that our companionship 
was based on mutual sympathy and above all on 
the existence of our children. 

“I should have remembered how young we 
were when we married, and also that, though 
slightly my elder in point of years, that in ma- 
turity, as a woman I was older than you. No one 
is perfect, and now, when I think of Madame de 
Muriel’s experience, and how through it all she 
remained unshaken in her allegiance, I feel 
ashamed. You must not from these words im- 
agine for an instant that your honor has not been 
safe in my hands. I do not mean this, but I 
257 


An Unfinished Divorce . 

feel ashamed to think that I could have allowed 
myself to be so influenced. One thing I noted 
was, that never during our discussion did you at- 
tempt to work on my feelings by mentioning our 
dead Jeannette. You did speak about our sor- 
rows, passed through hand in hand, but that w T as 
all. I did not then appreciate your magnanimity. 
The other day I went to the place where she 
sleeps and the beautiful words of the poet Tenny- 
son came to me: 

‘As through the land at eve we went, 

And plucked the ripened ears, 

We fell out, my wife and I, — 

Oh, we fell out, I know not why, 

And kissed again with tears. 

For when we came where lies the child 
We lost in other years, 

There above the little grave, 

Oh, there above the little grave, 

We kissed again with tears/ 

“And then, Jean, all bitterness left me, and I 
forgave. I thought of how you asked me to 
relent and to seal our reconciliation by together 
wiping away Aime’s tears. Now it was my turn 
258 


An Unfinished Divorce . 


to weep, and as many tears fell on Jeanette’s 
grave I felt that somehow they were an expia- 
tion for those that I had refused to join with 
yon in drying. Come back, Jean. What I have 
to forgive is forgiven, and in return forgive me. 

Your loving wife, 

Berthe.” 

A full year had passed since Arthur’s tragic 
death, and Berthe was seated in the library. 
Near her played her children. As carriages 
passed by she leaned forward in her chair ex- 
pectantly, but as the sound of their wheels faded 
in the distance she fell back. At length she 
spoke. “I thought it was your father,” she said 
to Marthe, catching her breath. 

“But mother, look at the clock. It will be 
fifteen minutes before father can possibly 
arrive,” replied the child. 

“That is so, dear, but I thought the train 
might have gotten in ahead of time.” 

“I shall be glad to see father again,” lisped 
Aim6 in his baby voice. “He was so sad when 
he went away. Had he been naughty and was 
mother cross?” 

“If mother was angry at father she has for- 
given him,” she replied. 

“That is right, we must always forgive, Mon- 
259 


An Unfinished Divorce. 
sieur le Cur6 says.” 

“Listen,” said the mother, “do you hear that?” 
as again the rumbling of wheels came to their 
ears. “It is your father.” She started to her 
feet, her hands pressed to her heart, every nerve 
intent. This time there could be no doubt. The 
carriage stopped before the door. An instant 
later the bell rang violently, but not more vio- 
lently than the throb of Berthe’s pulse. Jean 
entered. She threw herself into his arms. Her 
sight was veiled, she could see nothing, she could 
only feel his arms around her and his kisses on 
her lips. In that moment she thanked God that 
she had been saved from the crime of destroy- 
ing her family and Jean realized that in all the 
chances and changes of this mortal life the 
nearest approach to true happiness is to be 
found in the sacred ties of home. 



















































































































































































































































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